Merde Water

From Merde Water to Shit l'Eau

2007-06-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

My mom told me that I have to write a farewell post and I’ve never been that great at disobeying my mother so I find myself rather bound to her command.

But I feel kinda pukey saying “farewell” (I mean, gross mom. Next thing I know, you’re going to be asking me to rhyme. “France, you make my heart dance.”) So I’ll just aim for a regular post with a little bit of closure thrown in.

Saturday night, Leslie, Alex, Jean-Luc, Ross et Moi, we had our last official dessert/dancing/scotch night (the scotch actually being a new addition). I don’t have any witty observations regarding dance or dessert rhetoric but just want to say that it was a really nice last Saturday night being young and carefree in gay Paris (there’s a rhyme, right atcha, mommy dearest).

(Side note: I am watching “Sister Act” in French right now and am finding it extremely difficult to stay on task. Ohhhh Reginaaa…I love me some Whoopie. )

Ohh Regina, I am so isolated and so surrounded by wonderful friends. So stressed but so indifferent to anything besides the beauty of this city. So homesick but so reluctant to leave. So broke but….yeah, no. just broke (Leslie said “dollar” the other day and I was like, “Oh yeah, baby. Say it again. Let me hear that sweet, sweet word. Dollar. Hmmm”. I don’t plan on spending another euro for at least another….um, millennium when I can afford to come back ).

I am looking forward to having a job again. I am looking forward to affordable beer and clean air. I am looking forward to the washing machine in my basement because laundry day in a city is one of the most arduous tasks in the world (the world of a middle class college student). I am looking forward to having my OWN room in my OWN place where I can be aesthetically pleased and free to walk around in my underwear and eat dinner at odd hours. I am looking forward to Mexican food, any education system that isn’t French, and my family and friends (if they’ll take me back after my desertion). I am not looking forward to loud people, people who wear sweatpants in public, second-rate dessert/bread/cheese/architecture/art/bars, having to use a car.

I am really looking forward to being able to argue with service personnel. Here, they shoot me down the second I get past my previously rehearsed complaint. Not so in the U.S.A. Watch out Secretary of State lady, rude waiter guy, privileged line cutting princess. REGARDEZ-MOI. I speak your language.

If I had a name and it wasn’t Monica Herman, it would be Lucky McGratefulFace.
Because I had a really amazing time in Paris, because I learned wonderful things from two of the most intelligent men I have ever met, because I made better friends than I ever expected to make and because Muriel set out a breakfast tray for me every morning, which really made all the days start off generally well.

So, Allez-y. One more difficult week of school. Some sun-filled afternoons in Italy and Spain, a few farewell crepes in Paris and the tail end of 4th of July weekend in my own bed or something like I remember it.

Coco

2007-06-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

I think if I ever met Coco Chanel (in the afterlife sense), I would pee on myself a little. I am doing this project on the history of haute couture in Paris and I think I am going to start having nightmares about Coco Chanel. She just sounds so intimidating. So "too cool for school"/me.

For one, she escaped from a convent to become a cabaret singer. For two, she didn't marry one of the richest men in Europe because "There have been several dukes of Westminster. There is only one Coco Chanel." And three, she dated a Nazi during WWII so that she could continue living in her favorite suite in the Ritz. Well, she dated him for other reasons too, mainly those that had to do with her Anti-Semitism.

Ahh, love.

In other words, SCARY lady. Scary genius lady who made lots of beautiful things and revolutionized fashion. Incredible really, scary nonetheless.

So when I say nightmare, I don't mean the suspenseful murderer kind.. I mean the kind where the head of your estranged father moves in circles telling you that you're never going to amount to anything. Except in this case, it would be Coco Chanel's head and she would be telling you that you're ugly and inquiring as to whether or not you are Jewish.

Moulin Boobs

2007-06-07T08:25:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I use gmail and gmail does this creepy thing where it picks up key words from your emails and gives you a list of sponsored links next to your inbox... sooo...if your friend mentions "Hawaii", you will probably see a bunch of links to travel agencies with deals on trips to Hawaii.

My dad just emailed me his address. A very normal sounding address. The following link showed up next to the message:

Parrots
Earn Your Parrot's Love In Minutes You'll Never Be Bitten Again
www.BirdTricks.com

Aaannddd...that has absolutely nothing do with Paris so I better give you something else...

You have to be 5'11" to dance at the Moulin Rouge.
Their best dancers make about 60,000 Euro/year.
My class got to go backstage and see the costumes.

I am going to Nantes this weekend. Do "nantes" miss me too much.

Ohhhh merde.

Bon week-end.

Meek Robe

2007-06-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

I think Paris has become increasingly aware of the presence of a foreign body (my own) and is trying to purge it from its system. My proof is as follows….

1. I sneezed on the metro yesterday, hand over mouth, mouth closed, not using same hand to touch the metro pole afterwards…in other words, an exceptional example of hygiene etiquette in public places. Well, I might as well have defecated on the floor for the way this elderly man literally whipped his head around to display his indignant shock at my disgusting outburst. Whipped. I have never been whipped at before in Paris. I felt so suspect. He wants this sneezing American out of his city NOW.
2. Speaking of sneezing, I cannot stop. Ever. Wherever. I have become allergic to the entire city. I sneezed over 20 times in a twenty minute period today. It freaking hurt. I am trying not to breathe- a task which has thus far proved impossible. Paris is launching anti-American microbes into the air… I am convinced it is a conspiracy. The Parisians all laugh through their clear nasal passages while I flop around like a fish out of water, convulsing with SNEEZE.
3. Muriel says “microbe” quite often by the way, which sounds so cute in French. Meek robe. Apparently microbe can refer to many different things in the French language…the things to which I am allergic, bugs, what biologists study… it’s quite charming and consequently does not apply in any way to the list that I am composing. Strike it.
4. Another elderly lady was offended by my presence today. SHE smacked her purse into ME and then looked at me like I was the one launching the offense. She called me a name but I couldn’t make it out…Ross told me to just say what I thought I heard and he would figure out the French word…All I could think of was “Chode.”
5. Actually, one time this guy was really nice to me about my sneezing problem. I was sitting next to him on the metro being pitifully allergic..The first time I sneezed, he mumbled the French equivalent of "Bless you" in this scared voice like he was afraid that I would hit him for saying it. Instead, I said "Merci" and he got bold. He looked at me very gravely and said, "You have a cold?" (which I had to ask him to repeat 3 times because "Tu as une rhume?" always sounds like one word to me in French...) and I said, "Nooo..I have les allergies.." and he nodded, even more gravely, and said, "Ah , yes..well, in Africa we eat spicy chicken. That is what you must do." And I said, "Well, thank you. Spicy chicken. D'Accord."
And we parted ways. I to begin my quest for the spicy chicken, he to remain on the metro, seeking those in need of his sagedom. I felt remarkably cared for.

Ok, that list is really short and entirely inconclusive….it’s not even a real list. It doesn't have anything to prove, nor does it know what it wants to prove. Which is actually pretty appropriate to how I feel right now. I want to go HOME. I want to stay HERE. I want to go HOME. I want to stay HERE. I want a SANDWICH…

I still want a sandwich.

But I don’t know where I want to eat it.

Rock Stars and Kitsch

2007-06-03T08:04:00.000-07:00

I hung out with a really famous band.

A band that is famous to probably everyone except for the people reading this blog (hi family) so you all are going to have to take my word for it- big, mega huge band.

Wilco is the name. The concert was Tuesday night at a venue a half block away from my house. Oh, it was so good. I didn’t think that we would get in because we are all doing a terrible job of sneaking in beer.

“Mademoiselle, why are your boobs shaped like bottles?”

That didn’t happen, merci God, and it turned out to be the best concert that I have seen. Afterwards, we (4 hot babes + Ross) were standing outside the building when one of the band members came out. We were feeling particularly bold, what with the help of the smuggled beer and all…

“Hey, thanks for the great show.” (Wilco is from Chicago so they speak Amerikan)
“You’re welcome. I want you to have my babies.”

Or

“You’re welcome. Do you guys want to have a drink with us at a bar down the street?”

Either way, the answer was yes. So us 21 yr. olds went to this great bar called "Kitsch" and hung out with a bunch of 30- 38 year olds who kept saying, “Man, we’re so old, why are we hanging out with you?” And we were like, because we’re 21 year old girls. Duh. We didn’t hang out with the lead singer, the only really important one, because he’s all post-rehab, married with two kids and stuff... but oh well, we’ll take the bass player and the keyboard technician.

It was just an extremely fun and expectation surpassing evening. Made even ten times better and more surreal due to the fact that it was all happening in Paris.

(I told Muriel about the concert and she was like, “Wilco…they are Jamaican, right? And I said, “Uhhh no…they are white folk rockers from Chicago.” And she said, “But one of them is Arab?” No. “Algerian?” No. “Pas de Noirs?” No Muriel! They are the whitest white boy band that ever whited! What do you want me to say!?)

Hit the Road, Jacques

2007-06-01T06:33:00.000-07:00

I don’t have music or internet in my room so the TV has become my substitute for “background” entertainment when I get really sick of reading in silence. Since I can’t understand 90% of what is being said, it really is just like there are people in the room with me. They keep me from being lonely - flitting around, making pretty sounds and occasionally trying to sell me cellulite cream (which is convincing despite my French skills…because, after all, everyone understands the language of a smooth, cellulite-free thigh). And since I can’t really follow the dialogue, I don’t get engaged and can read novels and perform acrobatics with the greatest of ease.

Except when “Nouvelle Star” is on.

“Nouvelle Star” is France’s version of “American Idol,” which I will only be addressing now in the briefest of manners: Pain. Bad. Scary.

Oh God, forgive me, it’s so fascinating. First of all, they’re not very good. Which may not fascinate some people, but is genuinely intriguing to me. I thought it would be like math:

Millions of people – Millions of people who can’t sing = A few really good singers

But they keep getting rid of the good people. And I’m sitting there thinking… “wait a minute, the Diatonic scale translates in France, right? Wait a minute… it started here. You guys are from Europe! So is the idea of the musical key! So why aren’t you in one?!? Why aren’t you singing in one key!!!?”

And then I calm down because I am sure that the judges are going to take care of it for me. I wait for the impending slaughter.

Instead I hear, “Ta tonalité! C’est vraiment incroyable…Bravo. Tu es maître du chant.”

So I frantically go to the dictionary. Incroyable…I must have learned that incorrectly. It has to mean “horribly painful” or “an embarrassment to your family.” Maybe it’s opposite day in France.

But it never is.

To be fair, there are some good singers. Well, now there are only 4 left. And they’re alright…when they sing in French. One of them even gave me shivers once. But I was also cold so who knows.

But when they sing in English, it really is “incroyable” in the “embarrassment to your family” kind of way. The French accent is soooo sexy in spoken English.

NOT SO IN THE POP SONG.

“Eeeeet meee baby, one more time”

“Eeet the Road, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t want to eat the road. Nor does anyone want to eat Britney Spears one more time.

Nor do I want to admit that I have become this involved. But I have. And on that note, vote for Julien. He’s really cute.

La Maison de Sexe

2007-05-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

Alright. I’m just going to put it out there. I was watching porn at midnight on Saturday. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not my FAULT mom and dad. I am a victim and this is my tale…

So it was Saturday night. Ross and I just finished playing checkers and reading the Bible after a healthy dinner of vegetables and milk. I was knitting and he was rescuing an infant from falling out of a window.

“Hey Ross. What would you say to watching some good old fashioned family programming?”

“Well gee, Monica, that sounds swell. I think we earned a little TV time.”

And there we were, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, thinking about Gandhi and writing down the toll free numbers that we would eventually call in order to donate money to starving children. We were looking for Seventh Heaven.

What we found was “Sex House.”

Keep in mind that it is only midnight and that this is not an obscure cable channel. I’m talking like, channel 13 here, people.

And alright, fine, we watched it. But it’s only because our parents never told us how babies are made and neither of us had ever seen boobies before.

Forget the sleazy tattoos and the water splashing sloppily out of the hot tub…

Even more disturbing than the picnic table scene (um splinters? Hello?)…

The porn was…

DUBBED.

I was intently watching this girl’s face (apparently a sign that I am not very good at watching porn) and a thought came into my pure and confused little mind.

“Her moans don’t seem to be quite matching up with her mouth movements. Wait..uh…wait a minute…her lips weren’t even moving just then but I clearly heard her say ‘Je jouis!’ Oh my God…this porn is…dubbed!”

Then I started crying. So did Ross. And then we called a priest who promised to exorcise us the next morning so everything’s cool and I think we both might still get into heaven.

Fo’ real though. Who dubs porn?

The French, that’s who. Can’t even make their own pornography… got to steal it from the Americans.

Sickos.

Death Charades: An Ode to Muriel

2007-05-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes to Muriel Gonachon. I love her. I regret, almost painfully, that we don’t speak the same language. I want to know everything. Here is what I do know. Someone told me that true love is never “if” or “because” .....but that is crap. I love Muriel because…

1. She gave me leopard sheets
2. EVERY NIGHT, she points to the box of all bran cereal and tells me that it’s good for your digestion. Then she makes a circle around her stomach with her finger so that I know where digestion occurs. Ici.
3. She is too beautiful for anyone’s good.
4. Despite (to spite?) her beauty, she dresses in a manner that can only be described as “transvestite does J.Lo.” but only half the time. The better half. The other half of the time she looks normal, which is not fun. Unlike bandanas and hoop earrings, which are fun.
5. She left me three cartons of ice cream to compensate for her 6 day absence. Then she showed me how to “use” ice cream. Scoop. Scoop. Then it goes BACK in the freezer. (Who knew?)
6. She loves me
7. She does really good “death charades”…like if we don’t understand each other, we, of course, resort to hand motions. Hers are REALLY impressive. Especially if she’s talking about the way someone dies. “Suicide? Tu comprends?” Stabs giant knife into her stomach and then blows her brains out with her fingers, violently jerking her head in the direction of the lethal bullet’s flight through her skull. I shouldn’t call them charades though because there are noises involved. Like tonight, when she was talking about water beds, you know, like, eeeeoooohhhhwhhoooooo glub glub glub.
8. She leaves out a breakfast tray every morning. Even though I only eat the cereal, I still get the coffee and toast, jam, butter, works laid out for me. I am Monica, queen of breakfast. I have a cloth napkin to prove it.
9. She is really proud of her jungle- themed bathroom. When she showed my dad, she was like, “Look! La Jungle!”
10. She paints, I kid you not, her LIGHTBULBS. Red and orange. You know, for la bonne ambiance. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it’s not so much a bonne ambiance but an ambiance de whorehouse. Forget TLC, I’ve got the red light special right here on blvd. Voltaire. But I can’t see anything. I’m a whore who can’t read her school books. Oh dear.
11. She hates Nicolas Sarkozy
12. She bought belly dancing outfits for her friend (the belly dancing one, of course). She tried them on for me but I had to show her how to wear the skirt. No, Muriel, it has to sit low on your hips so people can see your belly undulating. Yeah, that’s right. You got it.
13. She works out to the Rocky theme song
14. She got married in Las Vegas twenty years ago and never bothered to get a divorce. Because it doesn’t count in France. But I’ll tell you where it does count… in the U.S.A, where Muriel Gonachon is still technically married to some millionaire who now lives in Morocco.

I would love her more if

1. She hadn’t made me sleep in sheets with giant teddy bears and toy cars on them. For two weeks. How does she expect me to work the red light special when my pillowcases have bear faces the size of my head printed on them?

Yeah, no, that’s about it. Yes to Muriel. Yes to la jungle. Thank you thank you thank you for this experience.

Drop le Beat

2007-05-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying that I didn’t (don’t) believe that anyone actually read(s) my blog (besides you, dad…thanks for the comments. U2 still sucks). Which I know is illogical. My mom has told me that the family reads my blog (Hi family, I miss you). And I know that Paul must be reading it since he is grading me on it (Hi Paul. You’re handsome. Gimme an A, handsome).

But that’s the problem with blogs- they are so one-sided. It’s really strange to be having this “conversation” with no one. I like dialogue and when it feels like I am just putting on a show “This is what Monica thinks! Isn’t it great?! No? Well, too bad! It’s my blog!”…. well, then I get uninspired. And then I don’t post for 10 days and then my mom scolds me in between telling the McDonald’s lady that she wants crispy chicken on her Asian salad.

So sorry. I’m not good at the regular intervals…it’s more like, 3 posts in three days, 10 days of nose picking…repeat repeat.

Ok, so French hip hop.

There is nothing more ridiculous than the French appropriation of the hip hop lifestyle. Nothing. Not even the time that Richard Gere kissed that Bollywood lady. Not even Donald Trump. Not even Dolly Parton’s boobies. Nothing.

(Why can’t I think of anything ridiculous besides celebrities?)

Uh…slavery. That was ridiculous.

But not more so than French hip hop.

It just loses all its edge when you put it in French. And not for lack of trying, mind you. Oh no, French rappers are the thuggiest thugs who ever thugged. As least that is what the advertisements would like you to believe. They’re all like, “oooh, look at my chains and my gold teeth and my tank top and yeah, that’s ghetto, baby. Watch me sneer now.” But really it’s like…in French. Which is too flowery to ever sound threatening. (Except in the case of the French girlfriend yelling at her lover. Which is terrifying. Go French chicks and your scary yelling…tell that cheating boyfriend of yours what’s up).

And the images they choose are soooo America, circa Tupac, who, despite the beliefs of many people, is DEAD. So let his look die with him. Tupac was awesome. And now he’s dead. Elvis was awesome too but I don’t get to wear white jumpsuits to class. Which is unfortunate.

Not that much of American hip hop isn’t ridiculous too. But let’s not get into it. We have Thanksgiving to fight over that (Hi family, I miss you).

There is an add for a movie here called Steppin’

So the tagline for the movie is, “Pour gagner, il doit revolutionner hip hop”, which means, “To win, he must revolutionize hip hop.”

And I’m like, “whoah. That’s a lot to ask. Especially for a French guy. They revolutionize bread and ways to get drunk in public spaces. Not hip hop. He’s never going to win the...steppin...contest!”

And then I think about how I hope that particular task is never asked of me. Like in ten years, a prospective employer will say, “Yeah, Monica, everything looks great here. You’ll have an offer from us by Friday. Oh, and just one more thing we need you to do, it’s nothing really…just so we have all your information in order. Yeah, I’m going to need you to just go ahead and revolutionize hip hop.”

And then I’ll call Julia Stiles and she’ll call that cute black guy from “Save the Last Dance” and he’ll teach me some tight moves and I’ll get the job, get accepted to Juliard, and fall in love with him while we dance together in the way that only true hip hop revolutionaries are able.

Ridiculous.

Bono's Groin (continued)

2007-05-05T02:23:00.000-07:00

For no other reason other than the fact that I am still not done being shocked and terrified by it.

I got a million billion packages for my birthday. It was like Christmas only better...because it was my birthday, not Christ's.
Muriel gave me a dozen roses too. Oh, and Paris is still really pretty.
That's all. I am spoiled with love in the most beautiful city on the planet.

La Poste and/or Bono's Groin

2007-05-05T02:07:00.000-07:00

La Poste.

They warn you. They really do. There is a chart outside the post office that says, “Choosing hours.” Choose. Do it Now.

(Ok, well, lay down some axes! Let us see what is you have GOT, Mr. Postman!)

Each day of the week is laid-out in conveniently color-coded, hour-long segments:

Yellow means the Post is fermé, the implication being that no one can "choosing hours" then.

Green, it turns out, stands for go. Go, baby, GO. You post that package! You speed in and you speed right out now, like a barracuda, baby, yeah.

Then comes orange. Feeling lucky? Let’s see whatchoo got. Maybe we’ll be busy, maybe not. Just try me. TRY ME. Dare you.

Meanwhile, you’re plotting like a madwoman, cross-sectioning time and the friendly and unfriendly rainbow and you realize that neither the generous green nor the oscillating orange color times that are convenient for you and you say, well, what about my schedule?

You run your finger across to the one time in which the gainfully-employed human being might actually have a free hour in which to post and lo, you look down to see your fate spelled out in BRIGHT PINK.

Oh, no. Oh don’t you even think about coming here then. Don’t you...wait, why are you…what? You don’t look impressed. Oh no? You don’t believe me? Fine. Tempt your fate. Come here any time after 3 p.m. Tuesday-Friday, all day on Monday, and Saturday morning between 9 and noon.

.......

Yeah, so I did. And the line was out the door and I waited a really long time and I got really hungry.

BUT. I won’t say that my wait at the post office/bank/dog-sitting service/extra-terrestrial hair salon etc. wasn’t void of entertainment. As you wait in line, you have the pleasure of watching La Poste chosen music videos on several big screen TVs, interrupted occasionally by a series of delightful and convincing clips arguing the greatness of La Poste and its unparalleled employees.

Which I enjoyed. A little boy gets a stuffed animal in the mail, delivered by-hand via the friendly and non-threateningly handsome postman. The boys face reads, Yeah! And then he starts chewing rabidly on the stuffed animal's face while the mom and the postmaster exchange amused and knowing glances. "Ha. Ha. Ha. Boys will be boys! Always chewin' and bitin'!"

And the music videos! Oh so cheesy, so non-offensive, so..... U2. Which made me realize, I had never really watched Bono perform before, an event I found both shocking and terrifying due to the inordinate amount of unwarranted hip thrusts aimed directly at a camera on the floor in front of his groin.

Post-offices in the United States, while equally maddening, are regretfully lacking in the postal- propaganda/celebrity-crotch displays.

Make that another point for France!

The Laws of Physics, the Hava Nagila, and Midwest Farmers' Daughters

2007-05-01T06:46:00.000-07:00

My father, Franklin Barclay, philosopher extraordinaire and wearer of sandals with socks, popped over from a Bombay business trip to visit me. He loves to observe the behavioral patterns of cities and has a great way of analogizing, describing, generalizing, and specifying everything. He claims that in Bombay, one doesn’t need traffic lanes or lights. Gridlock traffic can move at 40 mph, each car an inch away from the car in front of it, seatbelts forgotten, all because they seem to follow the rules of physics as their one rule of traffic; no two things can occupy the same place at the same time. In Paris, I would say the rules of traffic resemble more a sense of the kindergartener’s entitlement; me first. If you cross my path, you’re going to feel the tread of my tricycle and/or Peugeot tires….bitch.

After falling in love with Muriel, my host mother, my father has decided that previous to seeing her, there were women, but now, there are only Parisian women. He understands why Paul McCartney had to write "Michelle." I counter that Muriel is an anomaly and that the Beach Boys actually got it right when they said “The mid-west farmers daughters really make you feel alright…”

Hey, speaking of charming mid-western girls, guess who turned 21 in Paris! Guess! Guess!

I tried to explain to Muriel and her copain why the 21st birthday is so important in the U.S. Phillipe (copain) responded, “But wait, you can’t buy alcohol before 21? Even in the discotheques?”

Oh yes, Phillipe, especially in the discotheques.

Then Muriel, “So, you have never had a drink before?”

Oh, Muriel. You mal comprends. Let me tell you…

It was a great time. We went to Chez George, the most wonderful bar. I would be neglecting a huge part of my Parisian experience if I didn’t give mention to this place. We have become somewhat weekly regulars of this underground cellar, a veritable red-light special of candelabras and crimson candle wax. There is this great routine of transition between drinking and talking quietly at tables to drinking and dancing loudly on tables.

It starts with the Hava Nagila. Everyone is leaning in close to each other, discussing celibacy and genocide and then suddenly, around 10:30, it starts. The Hava Nagila. And everyone immediately sits upright and begins clapping, all limbs operating independently of their owners' will.

The clapping hands rise from lap height to face height and before you know it, your hands are above your head, snapping with the expertise of an eldery but spirited Jewish woman.

After that, the bartenders can do no wrong, everyone has to dance and will do so regardless of what they play. They have abused this right by playing everything from Italian opera to Johnny Be Good to the American National Anthem.

“Hey Stephen (bartender)!”
“Quoi, Moneeeca?”
“C’est mon anniversaire!”
“Eh, Oui!?! Let me guess…Twenty One!”
“Oooouuiiii! Vingt et un!

Make Plastic Your Papers

2007-04-28T06:04:00.000-07:00

Down by Hooker Ave., governmentally Rue St. Denis, I saw a weather-beaten man sitting at what looked like a child’s lemonade stand. What would you have to sell me, you man of the city, you?

Ah, yes. Of course:

Lamination.

"Make Plastic Your Papers," says the sign on the front of the table!

Faites Plastiques vos Papiers!

And there he is, the apparently seasonal laminatin’ man (a reliable source had seen his wares in the early autumn), sitting with his primitive laminating machine, ready to solve the problems of all the vulnerable Parisians walking around with water-permeable documents.

No city maintains a tolerance for whimsy like Paris.

I think I love you, Laminatin’ Man.

Make Plastic my Heart.

Don't Say "Azi-Nay"

2007-04-17T05:29:00.000-07:00

Traveling, I have done some. Having been overcome with the crushing grief of my lovely mother's departure...I fled. In short, three countries, 10 days. In Sweden and Copenhagen, I was given the incredible opportunity of staying with familes, connections to the people with whom I was traveling. What say I?

There is this "thing" in Denmark called "Jante's law", which is this unspoken social code that prevents Dane's from giving or receiving praise. Having arrived only 5 hours prior, I told the son of my hosts that I thought his parents were very beautiful, so attractive. This comment, so easy for me to say, seemingly floored him. Which floored me. Which led to a discussion with his parents about what a problem that attitude has become for Danish people and how they are gradually learning to compliment and acknowledge accomplishment. How humbling for somone like me, having been under the false impression that discerning the etiquette of a culture is fairly easy. I am becoming more aware that cultural subtleties are extremely...subtle and fascinating.

Or fascinating and not at all subtle....The thing is...(Here is the thing)...It's really hard to be in Berlin and not think about some very low points in human history. Which makes you want to talk about it. Which makes you forget that you shouldn't really say the word, "Nazi" or "Hitler" just because you are in a German train station and you think you "feel" like a part of World War II. I don't really know how to express the way I feel about this except by saying, history is more or less inescapable. Germans have to deal with so much in this respect- walking by countless memorials in the city, being confronted with terrible associations made by foreigners who have been raised with the limited knowledge of a VERY specific (devastating) German history. To separate the reality of Germany from that history? Necessary. Hard. Impossible?

Or completely possible, if given the time and the luxury of experiencing Germany as more than a two day tourist. Unfortunately, this is not an option for most people. So, without immersion....you get....Germany=Hitler? Georgia=Slaves and Cotton? Russia=Communism? I don't know.

Except this, which I do know: France=Cheese=Yum!

(No? Bad humor too soon after the German history thing?)

Oh, and I know other things too now.
1. Small towns are small towns are small towns. If you live on a farm in Europe, you still live on a farm. (Who knew!?)
2. In Sweden, Universities sell alcohol at what is the equivalent of a high school dance...for college students...who are drunk...on booze supplied by the University...
3. Sometimes it's really hard to talk to people from other nations about anything else besides what is different in YOUR nation. It's maddening. What happened to the universal human experience?
4. "i fart" is printed on Danish elevators...which means something about the elevator working but since no one was able to properly translate it for me, I am convinced it is a confession from someone who farts and also builds elevators.

Hey! Paris! Est-ce que tu m’as manqué?

2007-04-17T05:24:00.000-07:00

What has passed in the last 3 weeks is as follows:

1. Mom visits
2. Chocolate
3. I go to Copenhagen
4. Beer
5. I go to Sweden
6. Meatballs
7. I go to Germany
8. Beer and Meatjello
9. I go home
10. I consider Paris home
11. J’aime Paris
12. Meatjello. Really…chunks of ham and some kind of German krautenschteinerdoodledaddergrossness… set in a clear gelatin and served in slab-form. I vould liiiike some Beefenjello. Yahh. Danke.

To Napoleon, Adoration

2007-03-25T05:03:00.000-07:00

Alex and I had to write a love letter in our French class from Napoleon to the Queen of England. We signed it, “Ton Petit Dictateur.” Our French teacher was slightly bewildered at this signoff, shaking her head and saying, “The French don’t think of Napoleon as a dictator…”

Um, Ok…and so you think of him as what then exactly? Santa Claus to the Christmas Eve dreams of early 19th century France?

I love it. I love Napoleon. Every painting of him cracks me up. Alex talks about how much she loves campy or kitschy things, especially in the realm of painting. For her, this signifies Cabanel’s “The Birth of Venus.” For me, it means Napoleon. I want to have a room full of Napoleonic portraits when I am rich and fat and old. Or now. Everyday I would wake up and see his Napoleonic bulge and say, “Ohhh, Nappy, how you do delight me so!”

I am definitely going to buy the coffee mug at the Louvre giftshop that has David’s “Napoleon Crossing the Alps” printed on it.

Maybe I can even understand the French viewpoint on this matter. No other dictator makes me happy. Portraits of Hitler? Oh, no…oh no no no. Drinking espresso out of Stalin? Even worse.

Napoleon therefore, must by virtue of what exactly I don’t know, be allowed to maintain the title of “Emperor”. For my peace of mind and that of the country of France.

Go Bonaparte!

(but not. I mean, go Bonaparte on my wall…. Go Revolutionaries in history….you know, that whole thing)

Inflated Sense of Accomplishment

2007-03-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

My French is getting better…I am alright in conversations because I can get into a rhythm and actually start conjugating verbs and saying intelligent things. It’s the simple communications that trip me up. Par example, I can say, “It would be pretty interesting if France and America both had a woman win the next presidential election.” But when I walk into a bar, I freeze and say the French equivalent of “Drink. Please. Sit. Me. Hmm. Beer.”

I get so proud of myself sometimes when I pick up a word in a conversation that I completely forget to listen for the context of the word. It’s like if a French person were talking and I hear the French word for “fascism.” They finish their sentence and look at me expectantly. I say, “oui!” which is really my way of saying, “I know a word! I am awesome!” Meanwhile I have just agreed to one of several things, having absolutely no concept of which one:
1. Fascism is bad. Boo fascism!
2. I love fascism. Hoorah to fascists!
3. I eat fascists for breakfast. Mussolini! Yum!
This will eventually become a serious problem. Must...listen…for...verbs..and adjectives.

Muriel and I are getting along swimmingly. We are at the point now where I even feel comfortable making fun of her and she loves it. A few days ago, the shelf that holds the microwave started falling out of the wall while we were eating dinner. We knocked over an entire spice rack and broke a dish trying to move said microwave out of harm’s way. Muriel does not speak English but all of a sudden, amongst a series of highly distressed, “Oooh la la”s, she says “Oh my God!” in a perfect impression of what I am sure is a spoiled high school teen she saw on TV.
The next day, her ami, sexy Phillipe with the silver hair, came over to fix the shelf and eat dinner. Phillipe told me he spent two weeks on a cattle ranch in Montana. In response to my inquiry as to how the hell he ended up there, he replied that he has a friend who works at Disneyland France, as if that explained everything. Muriel and Phillipe then entered into debate as to whether or not it was appropriate that I said, “Je suis excitée pour le jour de St. Patrick.” Muriel thinks that I’ll get in trouble throwing around the phrase, “Je suis excitée...” because of its sexual connotations. Phillipe disagrees. The dictionary became involved. No alternative phrase found. No conclusion made. My future plans involve being excited lots of times about lots of things and I plan on expressing this excitement to numerous Frenchies. Something must be done. “I anticipate with pleasure…” ?
Yesterday, Muriel went shopping with her Arab friend in the “Arab part of town” so that she could find a new belly dancing outfit. The prospect of this excursion caused Muriel much stress, as it is very difficult to find both a satisfactory dancing top and a matching bottom. She anticipated a long day but assured me that her friend is an excellent belly dancer.
As for the weekend, it was thumbs up. Wonderful bars, wonderful cultural encounters, wonderful friends. I am the prom queen of Paris…or something. I caught the very last metro on Friday but it only took me halfway to where I needed to be. Skulking home with the other late-night metro rejects was pretty nice. All of us standing in front of Republique saying, “But our feet hurt and we have to pee!” Quite a sense of camaraderie.

One more thing: Muriel has “hip hop” pants. Eeep Opp pants. She told me that is what they were after I completed her on them. “J’aime ton pantalon” being a euphemism for “Dear God, Muriel. What is a woman your age doing in baby blue pinstriped jeans!?”

Hip hop pants. Oh my.

Necessary Acknowledgement and Reminders

2007-03-18T07:05:00.000-07:00

“Let it be said in passing that the hatred of luxury is not a sensible hatred. It implies a hatred of the arts.”

~Victor Hugo~

I am so spoiled. I have already gotten used to seeing things this beautiful every day and not thinking twice about it. Goal is to remember that this is unusual, that most places don’t have a monument every ten feet. Renaissance friezes on the outsides of buildings are not mundane. To live next to a cathedral is a gift. This city is so breathtaking. It has to be said. Paris is the most aesthetic of playgrounds. Of course the women here dress to match it. The Eiffel Tower never wears sweatpants. Why would you?

My First Parisian Protest

2007-03-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

Sunday, I was walking in the 2nd when I stumbled across a protest. It was really amazing. Even though I have seen many protests before, they were on a much smaller scale. Ross says that this one was small compared to the others that he has seen here, but it seemed huge to me. I was immediately convinced that whatever they were protesting against was the ultimate evil. It turns out that they were protesting against eviction.

Whatever that means. It has something to do with piling kids uncomfortably into the bed of a truck. I don’t know if they look this unhappy because they are victims of eviction or if they’re just thinking, “Aren’t I supposed to be watching cartoons on Sunday mornings?” and “I thought parades were supposed to be about candy and colorful, whimsical floats?”

Inappropriate Entry #2

2007-03-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

Right after I push the limits with the wiener blog, this just had to happen to me. I promise the next entry will be squeaky clean…ish…maybe…ehh. Ok, so, I am walking up the Metro stairs today on my way to check out potential hotels for the Monica who birthed me. I see the word “praline” spray-painted on the stairs, one word amongst many that don’t seem to actually be words at all. A week ago, I might not have noticed this word or have simply thought, “Hmm…spray painting the names of nuts? How silly! Hoodlums these days have lost their edge! Pralines are delicious and not at all offensive!”
I might have thought those things had I not been reading the book "Merde" by Geneviève. "Merde" is this incredible book that teaches you basically everything you really want to know how to say in French. It’s a slang book. So every night, I read a few pages of it before bed and learn how to say things like, “Your friend is a real slut, she gets laid by everyone.” It’s a wonderful book.
Now, if I was to doubt the relevance of this Miseducation of Monica Herman, my experience on the Metro today removed all doubt about the legitimacy of "Merde". I saw the word “praline” and alas, did not think “Nut!” like an innocent American but knew exactly what I was looking at* and was properly shocked into a mixture of delight and indignation.
Rest assured, parents, I am learning things in Paris.

*I can’t bring myself to give you a direct translation but I’ll give you two hints.

1. Female
2. Literally the shape of a praline

Ohhhh merde, I’ve said too much….

Blog Weiner. Weiner Blog. Can I say that?

2007-03-11T09:23:00.000-07:00

In Ameriker, we drive on the street. In Paris, they drive on the sidewalk, or at least park there. It is for this reason that the French have installed poles on the edge of the sidewalk, comme ça. Americans need not regard their sidewalks with suspicion, which is probably why my friend, Paul, wiener-smacked one of these poles on the way to a bar one night.

(It was really funny.)

Bateau Fromage. Fleuve Chocolat.

2007-03-05T12:57:00.000-08:00

The Seine is dirty, yes, but I think it is wonderful. Buildings are more dramatic when they can be viewed across a bank. Bridges are romantic and provide A + photo opportunities. Water is key to breaking up the chaos of any city. J’aime the Seine and its brownness. Someone buy me a boat. Or some cheese. Or a boat made of camembert that will ride up and down the chocolate Seine. (Brown has to equal Chocolate, yes?)

Merde Water

2007-03-05T12:47:00.000-08:00

Paris = Thumbs Up but Perfect Experience = Lie = Bad. What follows is what is hard and what is important for me to somehow come to terms with:

Living with a family is basically a euphemism for renting a sleeping space. If this were my home, I could share it with people. I hate not being able to do that here. We have nowhere to hang out. We go to school together, we get a drink, we get more drinks. There is no such thing as comfortably “being together.” Everything is a date and requires effort… not that effort is something to which I am opposed, however, it is so exhausting trying to find a way to have relationships with people when there is no way we can ever just sit in someone’s living room and watch a movie and get away from being in public.
I think that the homestay is a very productive and challenging part of this program but as it currently stands, I would sacrifice this particular facet of immersion in order to have my own apartment where I could actually build some semblance of a “life.” Eventually, I am sure we will figure out some slightly functional means of hanging out comfortably… but it is so frustrating and lonely right now. I like getting coffee as a way of catching up with someone, not as the axis around which our relationship revolves.
The internet is another big problem. I am in class for 90 % of the time that the computer lab is actually open. I am remiss to say that I am in Paris and McDonalds is the thing on which I am the most dependent and possibly the most grateful. It is really the only accessible place with free WiFi. When I am not at the Louvre, you can find me soaking up culture at the music-themed McDo at Opera, where I look at pictures of John Lee Hooker and smell Parisians (or look at Parisians and smell John Lee Hooker?). I joke. But really, McDonalds. Come on. I am aware of the tone of privilege literally soaking this last paragraph, but it is very difficult to be a college student without easy access to the internet. (And you know, I might also really miss talking to my mom on that thing called Skype, which basically means nothing to me now.)

In other news, Muriel fixed my lamp and The Man in the Sandbox (the one politically correct name with which I could come up), moved his decapitated head to the side a little bit.

Leopard toilet. Barbies in shower.

2007-03-01T13:02:00.000-08:00

I live with a total nutbar. Muriel Gonachon. Looks like a 40 yr. old Sophia Loren but has 12 yr. old grandchildren. The whole place is decorated with animal print, leopard stuffed animals, and figurines of black men. There was a clown marionette above my bed (now under the bed). In the bathroom, there is a pizza box sized sandbox on the
counter. In said sandbox.....

I love Muriel.
I'm really afraid to ask about the sandbox.
Muriel loves "Rocky."

"J'aime Rocky."
"Rocky? Comme...Sylvester Stallone?"
"Oui! J'aime Sylvester!"

Paris won't let me touch her naughty place....or something.

2007-02-28T11:18:00.000-08:00

What an inaccesible beauty. Paris is Pip and I am Estella or something... It's the brick. Everything is white and cold and I feel like I have to work at something in order to make myself a part of this particular kind of perfection. I really love it here but I am not the least bit charmed by this city. Moreso, I am lusting. It's a new kind of love, one I am not used to as far as location, or home, is concerned.