Whistler

(This is also a month late.... I will eventually catch up and talk about fun things, like me transferring colleges!) 

It was the thursday before Spring Break. I don’t have class friday, but I had an art history paper due the next day that I hadn’t started. The paper required us to go to a museum and find a work of art and relate it to another work of art from the Middle Ages to the eighteenth century. Most people went to something a little more obvious or concrete (the portrayal of women, differences that existed within the Renaissance period, and storytelling in paintings with the Virgin Mary for example) I should have done something like that.

Instead the pseudo-pretentious art history major in my wanted to so something off the wall. I was trying to connect Flemish still life with James Whistler’s Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1. It was a bit of a stretch. At the time, I thought the connections between pretty things being pretty things that you see in still lifes (lifes not lives...) and Whistler’s “Art for art’s sake” attitude was pretty clear. This eventually lead me to write a paper about Tulipmania (look it up, it was a thing) and the history of celery in Western Europe.

Anyways, part of the assignment is that we could sketch the art work if we couldn’t take pictures at the museum. I couldn’t take pictures are D’Orsay (where Whistler’s painting is) so the pretentious artist in me said I should sketch it. So deep part of me knew this would happen, and I packed my sketchbook and all my pastels. I came prepared and pretentious. I sprawled out on the museum floor to begin sketching the work (note this was the busy impressionist hall with a lot of other “important” works.) People started wondering what was so important about the painting I was sketching. It made sense, here are all these colorful works of art filled with color and provocative poses and here I am sketching an only lady sitting in front of a grey wall. 

Naturally, people started wondering why I was sketching this, at first glance, boring painting. I had just enough sleep deprivation to ease-drop and offer them a response. I talked about how the placement of the objects was what the artist was focusing on, how it was very “contemporary”, how it could be seen as a bridge between a impressionist art and later movements. They seemed to have enjoyed it. Later on a German woman asked me the same thing, and I offered her a response also. Knowing art history (or at least being able to fake knowing art history) has it’s perks. 

Strawberries, Watermelon, and Asparagus

(This is from like a month ago.... I write but I'm too lazy to post.)

So today I went to the open air market at Bastille to buy some fruits and vegetables. It’s normally quite fun, if not slightly hectic and panic inducing. There are a lot of people and   a lot of vendors all hollering out discounts. Seeing that it’s spring (or whatever the French call spring here) there were some new things at the market. Along with the allergies and insects springs along brings with it asparagus and off season watermelon from Costa Rica. These will eventually be my downfall. 

I saw one vendor selling whole watermelons for five euros and, like a panther stalking prey, I sprung. In retrospect, watermelons at this time of the year is too good to be true. However, I still went ahead and bought one, but in the process of carrying the watermelon over the counter from the vender to myself I knocked over a “panier” (read: basket) of strawberries. Luckily, the weird mix of clumsy and grace my parents gave me allowed me to catch the strawberries. With my leg. Mashing them into my pants. Staining them. The rest of the basket was saved, but the amount of awkwardness that comes with having a watermelon in hand and a basket of freshly thigh-smushed strawberries in the other was too much. I made a weird dying noise and shouted out “merde!” (literally: shit!)

I think the vendor took pity on me and reassured me that it was okay “Ce n’est pas grave! Ce n’est pas grave!” (Literarily: It’s not serious! It’s not serious!) I apologized, wished him a good day, and got away from there as fast as possible. I would have ran, but there were too many people for that to be possible, plus running is not a thing here. 

I spent about an fifteen minutes looking for asparagus at the place. I’m not sure it’s it’s just a French thing, but I could only find thick white stalks of asparagus. I’m a bougie person that likes my asparagus pencil-thin and green. Like models on St. Patrick’s day. Asparagus is my favorite vegetable, but thick stalks are tough and woody and white asparagus is too bitter. I wonder if the French are trying to undermine me though asparagus. Anyways, after wandering around the market I finally found a vendor which sold green asparagus. No awkward interactions besides me not being sure how to say apsaagus in French. 

I am currently sitting the café across the street writing this. I needed to de-stress. I’ll going into my non-existent spring break plans later. 

Cookies and Beer

My diet this week-end (French-ism) has consisted of organic packaged cookies, beer, and arugula. 

I see nothing wrong here.

34'' Inseam and Paprika

Welp. 

In general, pants here for men are 34 inches in length regardless of waist. (I now know why people always roll up their pants here now!)

Customer service is better in France. 

H&M is scary.

Today, I decided I needed some pants. So, I went to Les Halles (the closest thing to a mall in Paris) and went for it. Now I have trouble finding pants that look good on me due to my big thighs. The jury is still out on wether they are muscular, fatty, or some unholy mixture of both. That in combination with the “European” style of generally slim pants makes it difficult to find anything that fits well. 

Basically, I was body conscious, nervous, and slightly sweaty while trying to find some pants.  I was a mess. I was struggling and moist until I found Springfield. I’m still confused about what exactly it is, but from what I gathered (from a combination of wikipedia and being in the store) it’s a Spanish brand that pretends to be American. It’s not a British brand because the prices on the tags are more expensive there, and honestly the clothing just sort of looks “American”. I could be speculating though. However, everyone that worked there spoke English, and I think a few of them were originally American (one of the employees definitely had a thick American accent) . Luckily, the very helpful employees there (they would ask if I needed help every five minutes or so) were convinced enough by my French to stay in in the language and not switch to English. (Progress? I think so!) Though, I’m pretty sure they knew I was an anglophone after a few words. Anywho, the pants there fit my American butt well and I ended up buy two paris of pants there. Treat yo’ self!

After, I decided to see what the hype about H&M is all about (they don’t exist in my part of Colorado). Cheap! So cheap! But there were so many people (even in the mens section), and I felt like I was drowning. The line for the men’s dressing room must have been at least twenty people long, and somehow I still got asked a few times if I needed help. I left without buying anything; there was too much of a black friday-esque vibe there for me to handle. I might go back on a weekday. 

On a completely unrelated note, paprika flavored potato chips here are the same as barbecue back home. I think barbecue isn't a thing here so that's why it's "paprika". Seriously though, they are both that weird red-orange color and are oddly sweet. Same thing, different name. 

I. WILL. UPDATE. THIS. THING. MORE. BEFORE. I. LEAVE.

Settling Right In

It is currently five in the morning.

Earlier tonight I was dreaming in French. Then I realized that I was actually in the half-asleep/ half-awake state where you dream about what going on in the world around you. Basically I was woken up by the police yelling and treating to tazer a group of angry men on the street below. Not sure what they argument was about, but when the tazer was puller out people went running. Not to sound political, but it was nice to know that I (as a nosy bystander) didn't have much risk being shot at. Oh France, your yelling citizens and unarmed police force.

The café I dreamt about was nice.

Also, the Soldes which are government mandated after Christmas sales are nice. I have yet to take advantage. Sweater in lieu of friendships.

I think I will do more of these little blogs this semester considering how badly last semester's long-form blogging went.

I Live In A Country That...

I live in a city...

• that has boxes of thirty Ferrero Rochers for 7 Euros
• where baguettes and croissants are about the same price (both under a euro)
• that is beige and black
• that is obsessed with the American elections
• that has dog shit everywhere
• where I see the Eiffel Tower on public transportation
• where fashion sense, coldness, and politeness all seem at home
• that has an unhealthy obsession with avocados. (I saw a man selling five of them for two euro the other day and people were buying them. This is winter. Why do you need that summer fruit?)
• that uses Comic Sans and Papyrus like it was the 1999
• where decent wine is about 5 euros
• where high speed internet is impossible to find
• where the "musicians" on the metro have nicer shoes and coats than I do
• where running (athletic or in general) seems out of place
• where it is completely acceptable for a 50 year old man to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch and walk around with the bag
• where nightlife starts at 11 (and that's still a bit early)
• where Smart Cars seem normal
• that has districts (a la Hunger Games)
• that is called Paris and I freaking love it (even if I don't get to explore it as much as I would like because I'm a hermit)

More stuff to come. I haven't forgot y'all.

I'm Loosing SOME English

I never though I would say this, but french spelling makes some amount of sense now. We’re reading The Republic in my Social Foundations class and literally I have the hardest time spelling “republic” in English. “Republique” seems much more natural right now. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?! (It could be that Avenue de Republique is literally down the street from me, haha street humor) The other day I couldn’t say “really great” because I haven’t used those sounds in a while. I’ve become aware of how american english sounds. Imagine a slightly more subtle version of people from the 30’s. We’re really nasal and words go up and down in emphasis... il n'est pas très français (it’s not very French.) Also, I’ve started not capitalizing when I use countries as adjectives. Like, chinese restaurant, I am an american, french people. It’s a french thing and it makes sense! What is going on here? Even though I spend almost all my time in an English bubble here, my English is getting weaker. Is this how I die? French is slowly sneaking into my English, like everyone here. I even think, I’ve started speaking English a little quieter and with less distinct emphasis on syllables. Just a bit. 

Going to bed now, it’s 3 in the morning. Glad my first class is at 10:45! Look forward to a "comic sans in Paris" post I'm talking lots of pictures for.