101 posts tagged “paris”

I’m nearing the end of my first week of teaching at Lycée A, and so far, so good. This is the fourth school I've worked at, since my second year teaching I was assigned to two collèges. Out of the four, this is by far my favorite. I don’t want to jinx myself by breathing a huge sigh of relief, but the past three days have been really enjoyable.

A huge part of this happiness is my awesome commute. Assuming that one were to wake up on time, one could walk to Lycée A from my apartment in about 12 minutes. If one were to, say, shut off one’s alarm without actually getting out of bed two mornings in a row and then spend too long catching up on one’s blog roll on the third morning, one would still not be screwed. There just happens to be a bus that runs directly between one’s house and the door of the school that shaves five minutes off the normal seven-minute trip. So, one has not yet been late to work.

Okay, back to the first person.

My students are universally respectful in class, and the majority is interested and participates.  Some of them have a truly abysmal level of English, considering the number of years they’ve been taking English class, but they do seem interested in improving.

I’ve had some really funny moments so far this week, too. During the first lesson I say something like, “My name is Sophie, I’ve lived in Paris for three years, I love to travel, I like to go to the marché, and I hate to get up early.” And then I ask them to introduce themselves. I get a lot of, “My name is Laurent, I’m 16, I have 2 sisters and I like music.” But this one girl, one of the not-so-interested ones, said her name and then just looked at me. I said, “okay, what do you like, what do you not like, what do you do on the weekends?” and she just replied, “I have no passion” in a completely monotone voice. It took a lot of will to not laugh, although I couldn't quite stop myself from blurting out, “that’s sad!”

Another kid, Akim, forgot to turn off his cell phone in class. Normally I would have chastised him, but his ring tone was the theme song to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, so I just burst out laughing. Akim is memorable for other reasons, too. When introducing himself, he said that he loves his girlfriend of two years. He then proceeded to hit on me THE ENTIRE CLASS. He was very charming about it, and obviously joking, but when it was time for the kids to practice their question skills, Akim’s questions were: How long have you had a boyfriend? How far is your apartment? Do you have a roommate? How big is it? Big enough for me to come over? Oh, Akim.

A nice bonus of teaching in the same arrondissement as the two collèges from 2007-2008 is that I’ve seen several of my old students. While setting up my desk for Akim’s class, Antoine, whom I taught when he was in 4ème (or 8^th grade) came up to my desk and timidly said, “Madame?” When I looked up I was so happy to see him. He was part of a class of all 8^th grade boys. You’d think that would have been a nightmare, but we always had a great time, perhaps because I hated their English teacher even more than they did, and didn’t hide it. He said he remembered me, and even remembered my last name, and that he was really happy at Lycée A even though no one else from his collège class ended up there. He had always been a kind of stuttering, shy kid, and now seemed much more confident. It was nice to see.

Also nice to see was Pauline, a girl from my favorite-ever class. She stopped in the hallway and said “je la connais!/I know her!” which is not very elegant, but it got my attention. We didn’t have a chance to talk, because the bell rang so we both had to get to class, but I really hope I see her again soon. The school’s not that big, so I’m sure I will. I adored that class, and really want to find out how everyone is. They wrote me the nicest letters at the end of the year, and we always laughed a lot.

My private lessons are going well, too. Tonight was my first lesson with a great Franco-American family with five kids. I’ll tutor three of them, ages 9, 7, and 4. The two little girls (ages 7 and 4) sent me out the door with hugs and kisses and at one point Caroline actually got down on her knees and bowed to me.

So, I’m happy. Financially completely insecure, but happy.

While walking home from the market just now, I'm pretty sure I witnessed a candid camera shooting. I noticed a very upset older Chinese woman shrieking "non! non!" at a man. He had two large containers of lighter fluid resting by his feet. At least, I assume it was lighter fluid or something of the sort, because of the large flammable icons. The man was exaggeratedly miming lighting a cigarette, which obviously freaked out this woman.

I was wondering what the hell was going on, because it seemed very fake. If the guy was going to light his cigarette, why on earth was he taking so long to do it? It seemed like he was taunting the woman. And if she was having such a hard time getting him to understand her, why didn't she just run away before the firestorm?

I figured it was a rehearsal for some sort of comedy show, although it wasn't very funny and certainly in an odd location. I walked right by, assuming no one was in danger, and then I heard applause and laughter. A man jumped out of a nearby parked van and the cigarette-lighting man hugged the frantic woman. I'm pretty sure it was some sort of cruel candid camera-type show.

So if you ever see this skit, and notice a woman walking right by the action in a bright red sweater, holding a large package of toilet paper, that's me. I promise I'm not that callous, I'm just a New Yorker.

Yesterday my friend Grant emailed me, saying, "I already read the ice cream thing weeks ago so get off your ass and write something cool." Simmer down, Grant.

But he's right, of course. I haven't written anything in over a month, mostly because I was in the States for over three week. Mostly in New York, with a quick three-day visit to my maternal grandparents in Los Angeles. Even though this trip was significantly longer than most of my trips home, I still didn't get to see everyone or do everything I wanted to. I was particularly looking forward to catching up with one of my childhood friends, Jade. She's one of the friends I mentioned back in this post, and we haven't seen each other in way too many years. Hopefully next time . . .

While I was in New York, I reached the three-year anniversary of my arrival in France. It was hard to celebrate while not in the country, but it is amazing to me that I'm still here. And entering my fourth year of teaching! So, happy third anniversary to me.

I don't think I've actually written here about what I'll be doing this year. Back in January, when my job with the cool educational non-profit fell through, I had less than a week before the last deadline for the assistantship. This program is what brought me to Paris back in 2006. Technically, you're only allowed to do it twice.  Which I have already done. In 2006 I was accepted through the US embassy in Washington, DC, and then my contract was renewed for the 2007-2008 school year through the rectorat in Paris. The program is so insanely disorganized, however, that I thought there was a pretty good chance that there is no master database, and so I figured I’d take a shot at applying again. I had to rush to get my recommendations and fill out the paperwork, but managed to get it done in time. It’s funny, ‘cause when I applied in the winter of 2005 I spent SO LONG on getting the application just right, and this time around I just threw it together. I didn’t think it would work, especially because the supposed overnight express envelope that I sent ended up taking two nights, and so my application got in a day late.

The stars were shining on me, however, because I was accepted. Once I moved apartments, I called up the lovely new lady at the rectorat (I’m still sad that Madame Dionis is gone, but the new Madame Couetdic seems to be more on the ball) and asked if it was possible to assign me a school near my new apartment, rather than the one they had on file. She said she’d see what she could do, but no promises. And then, score! The high school I’ll be working at is a 12-minute walk from my place!

I went by to meet the headmistress back in July, and we really hit it off. Then yesterday I met the English teacher in charge of me, Solange. We had already spoken on the phone and emailed a few times, mostly to discuss my scheduling preferences. I have been nothing but impressed with the school’s organization, so far. I already have my finalized schedule for the year, and received all my paperwork from the intendance and secretariat. I’ve been given a tour of the school, my own whiteboard markers and attendance book (ooh, the power I wield!), and met three of the six English teachers I’ll be working with. All of this makes me think that I’ll probably hate the students, as in my experience it’s impossible to like both the staff AND the students in one school.

I’m really happy with my schedule, too. Every other week I have to work one hour on Fridays, from 11 am to noon, but other than that I have four-day weekends and never work before 9 am or past 4 pm. And eight of my 12 classes are in the same room, which is really nice. Of course, the other four classes are in the amphitheater, which will be interesting, to say the least, but you can’t have it all.

Tomorrow is orientation, which I’m not looking forward to that much since I have a feeling I’ll know most of the information. But I can just play Scramble on my awesome new iTouch.

I’ve already had two hours of tutoring since being back: one with Lucas, and one with the hot pilot. Both went really well, and I had a huge smile on my face when I rang the doorbell at Lucas’ house and heard him squeal “it’s SOPHIE!” His reading has advanced so much; I have a feeling that soon I won’t have much more work to do!

I’m still in the process of scheduling all of my private lessons. I have to turn down quite a few people, since I won’t have the time or energy to take on all the clients that contact me. I’m having trouble figuring out how many hours I should do in addition to the twelve hours of classroom time. It’s a bit frustrating, because if you break down the pay by hour, I get paid literally twice as much to tutor as to be an assistant, but I need the assistantship for the working papers and the paid vacation. It’s really a pretty good deal.

And I am SO relieved that my 15 months of being a sans papiers are over.  I think the only reason I don’t feel guilty is that I earned this! Living illegally takes dedication.

Over the past few weeks I have been conducting a highly scientific study of the ice cream shops in Paris. Everyone says that Berthillon is the best in town, but I disagree. While certainly not a popular opinion, I think their ice creams and sorbets are too sweet. Even their caramel au beurre salée, which is generally my idea of heaven, is too sweet and slightly burnt tasting.

Everyone knows Amorino, the Italian-style French-owned (I think?) company that crafts their gelato into flowers.  I really, really like their yogurt ice cream, and many of the other flavors are quite good, but nothing spectacular. So I figured there had to be something better out there.

David Lebovitz declared Pozzetto the best gelato in Paris, so I went to check it out. About ten days later, I don't remember what flavors I had (bad sign), but I do remember being unimpressed. I would try it once more, selecting different flavors, but I wasn't wowed the first time around.

What did wow me, however, was the Italian import Grom. I remember having Grom when in Florence a few years back, and being impressed with their slow food philosophy. Located very conveniently on Rue de Seine, about halfway between Odéon and St Germain des Près metro stops, it's my new favorite left bank ice cream.

I don't normally order vanilla, but theirs won an award so I figured I'd try it. Oh, my. It was so flavorful and creamy. I found the coffee too intense, but that's because it actually tastes like espresso, exactly as they claimed. Totally my bad for expecting a Haagen Dazs type sweetened milk with a dash of sugar coffee. This was full on espresso with sugar, and gave me an insane sugar/caffeine rush.

I went back a few days later, solely for research purposes, of course, and got the vanilla again. Still good. This time I tried the cioccolato fondente, one of their three chocolates. The balance was perfect. I prefer dark chocolate to milk chocolate, and this was a very fine dark chocolate ice cream. I'd like to try their extra-dark chocolate or chocolate sorbet next time (listed at the store, but not on the site), and also sample some of their fruit sorbets, which look just as good. Still, the vanilla is definitely a top choice.

My new favorite right bank ice cream is Raimo, a 25-minute walk from my house. In case you didn't know, that's the perfect distance for working up an appetite, and then working off the ice cream. While Amorino, Grom, and Pozzetto are all Italian-style gelato, Raimo is straight-up French. I'd tried the ginger on my first visit, which was surprising and very spicy. It definitely catered to ginger lovers, like me!

This time, I got caramel au beurre salée and lait à la menthe.  They were both perfection. I kept on taking bites, expecting the next one to be disappointing, because it couldn't possibly be as good as I thought it was. But it was. It is! Raimo seems to have mastered the caramel au beurre salée ice cream in a way I've never seen. It's the closest to a Ladurée macaron that I've yet tasted, which is a pretty good hallmark. And the lait à la menthe, while sadly a summer 2009 specialty, was creamy and sweet and refreshing and maybe my favorite of all the ice creams I've mentioned above.

I hear that Grom opened up a few shops in Manhattan, so I definitely recommend my friends there check it out. As for Raimo, I guess you'll just have to come visit me!

Since my plans for the month got all kinds of messed up, I've decided to do lots of little day trips from Paris. Not having to pay for youth hostels will keep the cost down, and there are tons of things to do in under a 2-hour train radius. I picked up the Guide du Routard Week-ends autour de Paris, and have been marking things I'd like to do.

So far this week I went to Chartres (one hour by train from Gare Montparnasse) and Chateau de Vincennes (5 metro stops from my house!). I'm looking at Reims (45 minutes by TGV), Orléans, Chantilly, and Provins.

Does anyone have experiences with any of these cities/towns/chateaux? Other places to recommend? I'm thinking of making at least 3 more trips next week, so send your ideas my way!

Does that sound pretentious? I don't mean to be, so I'll explain.

I've had a really crazy month. Hopefully I'll make myself sit down and write about it at some point, but in the meantime I'll just say that there have been a lot of picnics, out-of-town visitors, boozey nights, and job changes. It's been a fantastic month, with the exception of a few really rough days at the beginning, but as my mom pointed out last night, when she asks how my day was during our nightly check-ins, I tell her I had a really great day 9 times out of 10.

Today started slowly, making apricot jam from yesterday's market purchase. I cooked the apricots down for a while, with brown sugar and lemon juice, and created a delicious jammy goo that I'll try tomorrow on my morning yogurt. Then I headed to my thrice-weekly babysitting/tutoring gig, where the sinfully adorable Natalie dressed up like a pink cat and meowed.

While all of that was nice, the best part of the day, by far, was my evening visit to Beaubourg, or the Pompidou Centre, as it's known to Americans. I went to check out the Kandinsky exhibit, and just loved it. I've always liked Kandinsky, particularly Composition VIII and Yellow-Red-Blue, but this exhibit went much deeper. I already knew I loved his Blue Rider period, thanks to an excellent German expressionist exhibit at Vienna's Leopold Museum a few years back. But this exhibit expanded on his Moscow period, and the works he did at Bauhaus, which were just gorgeous. I kept having to go back and visit them again and again. My favorites were Accent in Pink, Three Sounds (I can't find a good link for it), and Several Circles.

As I was walking through the exhibit, I kept thinking how glad I am that my mom took me to museums as much as she did while I was a kid. My mom's an art dealer, and has worked at some amazing galleries over the past 35 years. I remember her taking me to a Magritte exhibit at MoMA, where I was shocked by his painting, Rape. And I had weekend classes at the Met, where we would study, and copy, Indian illuminated manuscripts, Egyptian statuary, and African masks. I grew up learning about art, and while my mom would explain the artists' lives and inspirations, she never told me what was good or bad, or tried to force her tastes on me. To this day we often disagree on pieces, and I've never felt that I'm wrong, but rather that I have my own developed tastes.

When I came out of the exhibit, and saw the Paris skyline just settling down for the night, I felt calmer than I have in ages. And the phrase "art is my meditation" just popped into my head. I felt so relaxed.

I saw a few other shows recently, that all had the same affect on me. Visiting the Fondation Cartier on the last weekend of the Beatriz Milhazes exhibit meant that the catalogue was sold out, much to my dismay. And the Calder in Paris show at Beaubourg recently closed, but not before I coveted his animal line drawings. I have a few more on my list, namely Planète Parr at the Jeu de Paume, and Bulgarian Icons at the Chateau de Vincennes. I don't know that I'll get to see them all before they close, as I'm leaving town on Saturday, but I'll do my best to cram them in.

I could use a bit more zen before the next two months come barreling in!

Last night I responded to an ad on craigslist, offering a free backpack. It's from LLBean, and looks perfect for day trips, and much better than the crappy one I bought for 10€ last year at Decathlon. I met the woman at her metro stop, and we chatted for a few minutes. It turns out that we're both children's book editors, and have worked at the same company!

She's a bit older than I am, so we worked there at different times, and know different people, but we ended up getting coffee and exchanging story ideas. It's just such a small world! I can't believe that this random woman and I are from the same, relatively obscure, field.

So, Louise, if you're reading this, hi! It was lovely to meet you, and I'll be sure to take the bag on many grand adventures. And I think I might actually start working on that story finally . . .

I do not like creepy-crawlies. I kill bugs left, right, and center. I don't feel any qualms about it. They freak me out, and I want them gone.

And yet, I have been totally unbothered by the night visitors I get in my new place.

In New York, my apartment had screens on the windows. I had the occasional small spider in the summer (which I would kill. I know they supposedly eat other bugs, but they also eat me. Dead.) but I never had anything flying around.

Here, I have two beautiful, big windows that open into my apartment and give me a view of the courtyard, with its grey roofs and rust-colored chimney pots. These windows, that make my apartment look a lot bigger than it is, have no screens. I can't recall seeing any screens on friends' windows, either. If I had screens, I couldn't water my plants or pluck basil for dinner from my lovely window boxes. And I couldn't shake out my bathmat or kitchen rug into the courtyard below. And I couldn't make my friends lean ALL the way out the window when they smoke at my housewarming party.

But these screenless windows let in lots of winged creatures. I have what looks like miniature mosquitoes that don't seem to bite, flies, big flies, bigger flies, microscopic flying things, ladybuggish things, and even a big-assed moth once. I only notice they're here cause I can hear them beating their gross wings against my ceiling. And it just doesn't bother me.

Okay, the flies bother me. But those are here during the day, not at night. And I have a lot fewer now that I bought a pitcher plant. I wonder if it's because, somewhere in my New Yorker mind, bugs are more acceptable in Europe? Is nature invading your space an "old-country" thing to anyone else?

I went to Lisbon for a long weekend a few weeks back, and met a guy in my hostel. We hit it off, and spent the whole time together. Aaron took two months to travel around Europe and take a break from his normal life in northern California, where he's going through some changes. Now that he's back to the usual, he's kind of taking stock and considering a greater shift.

So we just got off the phone, and he asked if I think it would be crazy for him to sell all his shit and move to Berlin to get a bartender job. I said no, but you're talking to a girl who sold all her shit and moved to Paris for a teaching job.

And then I realized, wow. I did that. I sold all my shit: bed, bookshelves, couch, rugs, kitchen appliances, electronics. I boxed up books and vintage dishes. I gave away bags of clothes. I bought a one-way ticket. I live in Paris.

This might seem incredibly obvious to you. I have, after all, lived here for over two and a half years now. I am in my fourth Parisian apartment. But every so often I'll have a moment where it hits me: Oh. Right. I live in Paris. Huh, how'd that happen?

Aaron asked if the romance has worn off, if I regret my decision. But I really don't. I love that I can go to Portugal for the weekend. I love that in the past week I've been to one of Napoleon's castles and the cathedral where all the monarchs of France are buried. I love that I buy my produce in a market from the 1700s. I just, every once in a while, wonder how I got here.

The last time I felt this way was about six months ago. I was in Monoprix, buying groceries. I had chosen some spices, to help with my advancing cooking skills. And as my cart was rolling up the automatic ramp next to my escalator, I looked over and saw my bags of flour and my jars of spices and the new cake pan I was buying. And something about the spices, their longevity, made me aware that I'm building a life here. Cause you don't buy oregano unless you mean it.

My trip to Spain was excellent. With the exception of my last two days, I had clear blue skies during the day, and cool nights. I extended my time in Granada, which I don't regret in the slightest, and loved Seville. I definitely hope to go back to both Granada and Seville at some point.

Cordoba was nice, but the only thing I felt was worth seeing was the mezquita. And I've done that, so now I don't need to go back. The two nights I spent there were the only nights I was bored in the slightest, or lonely. The hostels I stayed at in both Granada and Seville were awesome, and I met tons of new friends.

I might eventually get around to posting pictures, and more information about the trip, but that's not really why I'm writing. Since getting back from Spain, on March 1st, I've had a really bad month. Normally February is my tough time, but this year February creeped into March.

When I got back, I immediately had to step up my apartment search. I had started beforehand, but my cough kept me in bed a lot. There were days I visited four apartments, I was making dozens of phone calls, sending out masses of emails, living on apartment search sites, and setting up as many appointments as possible. I saw lots of nice places, some laughably small ones, a few roommate dealies that were okay but overpriced, and then I saw The One.

I walked into this apartment on March 11th, and immediately thought it was the nicest apartment I'd seen. One of the nicest studios I've seen in Paris, period. Clean, airy, bright, renovated, and in a great neighborhood. Even the price was totally reasonable. The only possible downside could be that it's on the 5th floor of a walk-up. That's the 6th floor to Americans. But I could even find a way to spin that into goodness, since lord knows I could use some more exercise.

The landlord said he would only contact the one person he chose for the apartment, and I came very, very close to not bothering to fill out the information sheet, thinking that there was no way this guy would pick me out of the 25 people there. But I filled it out, and told him that if he picked me I would be really happy. I left, and thought no more about it.

Until the next night, while tutoring Ella. I got a phone call, and the caller ID was from the landlord! Holy shit. I told Ella I had to take it, and almost blew a gasket when the landlord, Mr. W, told me he hadn't made his choice yet. He was down to four people, and couldn't decide between them. So, he was asking us each to write a motivation letter. For the apartment.

Part of me thought "you have got to be kidding me," but with Pauline's help, I whipped up a brilliant letter. As I sent it off, I told Pauline "I'm going to be really sad when I don't get this apartment." Oh, I forgot to mention that while I was on the phone, Mr. W decided to just ask two of us to write a letter, and so therefore I had a 50/50 shot.

About 15 minutes after sending the letter, I got a call saying that I was the One. And there began two and a half weeks of stressing that he would figure out I don't have a carte de sejour, and I would lose it. The worry was for naught, however. Although it took FOREVER, I signed the lease Saturday morning. Two and a half weeks after first seeing the apartment! 

All of the stress definitely got to me, and I got bronchitis. The cough I had before Spain lingered and evolved. I've gotten bronchitis at least once a winter since I was in 8th grade, when I had walking pneumonia. So the search and the bronchitis and the antibiotics all combined to make a rather sad Sophie. But all of this is really just the preamble to the real reason I had such a bad month. It's just hard to write about.

I lost a dear friend to cancer. Sylvia, who some of you will know as Benjamin's mother, died about two weeks ago. Over the years I've become close to the whole family, and have spent a lot of time with Sylvia. She had had breast cancer years ago, but it was in remission. Last year, though, she started having serious stomach problems, and was often unable to eat. In June the doctors confirmed that it was cancer. I got the email while I was in Santorini, and was really upset. But I felt optimistic, cause she was at the best cancer hospital in the country.

The first thing I did when my plane landed in Paris after Greece was call. And same thing when I had two days in town between New York and Ile de Ré. I visited for a few hours at home, and while I was sad to see how skinny she'd gotten, I was relieved that her personality was very much intact. And so began her second round of chemo. It went pretty well, and we had a lovely family dinner this fall. But shortly after, Sylvia was back in the hospital for more treatments.

I visited her a few times in the hospital, and as it turns out I never saw her at home again. Christophe and I had lunch the day before I went to Spain, and while I was away the cancer spread again, to her kidneys. About a week after my return I got a call from Christophe, saying that if I wanted to say goodbye I had to come then.

The doctors had given her a few hours, maybe a couple of days. But Sylvia held on for a week. It was awful, watching her get weaker and less and less aware. But I am so grateful that I was there. The first night I went, the night Christophe called, was the last time Sylvia knew who I was. She couldn't really talk, but she knew I was there.

I told her I loved her, and would miss her, and would watch out for Ben and Juliette. I told her that I would never forget her, and that our friendship would not end. I promised to continue telling her the crazy stories of trying to make my life work in France. And so far I've kept that promise. I still talk to her, and I still miss her.

I don't know how much she understood of what I said, but she must have felt my love for her. She brushed the tears off my cheeks, and looked into my eyes. I am just so grateful to Christophe for giving me the chance to properly say goodbye. Because over the next week, each time I visited she was less and less Sylvia.

I've never lost a friend before. A friend's sister, a great-grandmother . . . no one that close. I loved my great-grandmother very much, and I was 13 or so when she died. But while I can still hear her voice in head, and am so happy I got her hair (on my head, not in a drawer somewhere), I didn't truly know her. And she was in her 90s when she died, after having met most of her great-grandchildren. Sylvia was not ready to go. She had so much to live for, and so many people who love her.

Most of last year I was tutoring her in English. The French word toujours has two meanings in English, still and always. In French it's very easy to know which is meant, from the context. But Sylvia could NEVER get it right in English. I'm sad that I can't tease her about it anymore. I'm sad that she won't have the chance to get it right. I'm sad that she had to stop learning.

So, Sylvia, thank you. I miss you, and haven't really realized that you're gone forever. I Iove you, still and always. Thank you for being my friend.