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.
lundi 31 janvier 2011
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.
mercredi 5 janvier 2011
Taxi Trauma
Bonne année, as people are still saying!
Sorry I haven't written for a few weeks. I had a wonderful time spending the holidays in Kansas. In fact, I'm glad I got there at all. I got out of Charles de Gaulle airport about four hours before they cancelled all flights due to snow. Getting to the airport, though, was the real adventure.
My plan was to take a taxi to the high-speed train station, catch the 7:07 to CDG, and arrive with plenty of time to check in for my 9:30 flight. I reserved the taxi two days in advance to make sure I booked them before the snow fell. A teacher at school offered to drive me if they refused. "Would they actually refuse?" I asked. "Mmm. . . No. . ." he failed to reassure me.
6am Saturday morning found me and the Lithuanian assistant, who was sharing the cab, standing in the cold waiting for our taxi.
Waiting.
And waiting.
It was 6:15. I was calling the taxi service and getting the answering machine. The third time, I listened carefully to the message: "Hello, you have reached C--- Taxis. Due to the weather we cannot acquiesce to your demands. Thank you for understanding."
I was angry that day, my friends, like a man trying to return soup at a deli.
My friend knew that all the busses were cancelled except for one that went to a train stop in nowheresville. If we took that, maybe I could get to the airport in four hours or so. We started walking to the bus stop in the center of town. It was freezing. Only my ire kept me warm.
We passed two policeman hanging out in a bakery, chatting with the baker. My partner suggested we ask them for a ride.
Turns out they weren't policemen, but security guards. Nonetheless, they were very helpful. They got out a phone book and started calling different taxi services. No luck. Finally, one of the guards offered to drive us. It was very generous, and it's not like we had an option.
We arrived at the train station (with no problems) at 7:05. I had two minutes to get my ticket. Of course, as soon as I got to the counter, the man working there drew the shade and left. I tapped my foot, trying to look so visibly impatient that he would notice there were people with flights to make and get a move on. The intercom announces the arrival of my train. The man comes back. There's a young couple in front of me. They're asking about times, comparing prices, talking it over. . .
I can't take it anymore. I burst, "Are you going to be a long time? They're announcing my train!"
Thank goodness they were nice people. They insisted I go ahead of them. I slapped my online receipt in front of the man and ask for my ticket. He clicked his tongue reprovingly and said, "You should have gotten here earlier. . ."
But he gave me my ticket, I ran down the ramp, giant backpack just serving to make my run funnier, and-- I write this proudly-- made the 7:07 train!
Of course my flight turned out to be three hours late. But I got there on schedule, thanks to the generosity of a few Frenchmen-- and perhaps some divine intervention.
Sorry I haven't written for a few weeks. I had a wonderful time spending the holidays in Kansas. In fact, I'm glad I got there at all. I got out of Charles de Gaulle airport about four hours before they cancelled all flights due to snow. Getting to the airport, though, was the real adventure.
My plan was to take a taxi to the high-speed train station, catch the 7:07 to CDG, and arrive with plenty of time to check in for my 9:30 flight. I reserved the taxi two days in advance to make sure I booked them before the snow fell. A teacher at school offered to drive me if they refused. "Would they actually refuse?" I asked. "Mmm. . . No. . ." he failed to reassure me.
6am Saturday morning found me and the Lithuanian assistant, who was sharing the cab, standing in the cold waiting for our taxi.
Waiting.
And waiting.
It was 6:15. I was calling the taxi service and getting the answering machine. The third time, I listened carefully to the message: "Hello, you have reached C--- Taxis. Due to the weather we cannot acquiesce to your demands. Thank you for understanding."
I was angry that day, my friends, like a man trying to return soup at a deli.
My friend knew that all the busses were cancelled except for one that went to a train stop in nowheresville. If we took that, maybe I could get to the airport in four hours or so. We started walking to the bus stop in the center of town. It was freezing. Only my ire kept me warm.
We passed two policeman hanging out in a bakery, chatting with the baker. My partner suggested we ask them for a ride.
Turns out they weren't policemen, but security guards. Nonetheless, they were very helpful. They got out a phone book and started calling different taxi services. No luck. Finally, one of the guards offered to drive us. It was very generous, and it's not like we had an option.
We arrived at the train station (with no problems) at 7:05. I had two minutes to get my ticket. Of course, as soon as I got to the counter, the man working there drew the shade and left. I tapped my foot, trying to look so visibly impatient that he would notice there were people with flights to make and get a move on. The intercom announces the arrival of my train. The man comes back. There's a young couple in front of me. They're asking about times, comparing prices, talking it over. . .
I can't take it anymore. I burst, "Are you going to be a long time? They're announcing my train!"
Thank goodness they were nice people. They insisted I go ahead of them. I slapped my online receipt in front of the man and ask for my ticket. He clicked his tongue reprovingly and said, "You should have gotten here earlier. . ."
But he gave me my ticket, I ran down the ramp, giant backpack just serving to make my run funnier, and-- I write this proudly-- made the 7:07 train!
Of course my flight turned out to be three hours late. But I got there on schedule, thanks to the generosity of a few Frenchmen-- and perhaps some divine intervention.
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