P.S. I would have you know that I worked some creepy stalker moves to get this pic for you. A few tourists and at least one street cleaner now think I'm very weird.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
One More Thing
P.S. I would have you know that I worked some creepy stalker moves to get this pic for you. A few tourists and at least one street cleaner now think I'm very weird.
I Love French
I know. You never expected to see that as a post, did you?
It happened yesterday, when I brought Jason Kabel to Family Home Evening. He'd been speaking Dutch to me all day, and I'd been answering in English or Dutch, depending on which one came to my lips first. I was understanding everything, but I felt sort of Dutch-stupid with the speaking thing. I'd say a sentence, Jason would look at me blankly, and I'd have to sort through each word to see which one I'd said in German. A couple times I felt like tearing my brain neatly in two; for example, when I realized that gekocht in Dutch is the PP of "to buy" and gekocht in German is the PP of "to cook".
o.O
Anyway. We made it to the institute center, and I said hi to some people in French and introduced Jason in French, but we soon switched into English so Jason could understand. As we turned to walk inside, I found myself looking forward to more French. I was craving it. I walked further inside and the sound of French bubbled up around me. And it sounded good. Not the "oh French is a beautiful language! the language of love!"* good, but the "aaahhh, the sound of the language I've been fighting for for so long and which is quicker to my mind that Dutch at the moment" good. And right then and there, I fell in love.
I have been falling for a few weeks, now, quietly, unobtrusively. I have passed milestones in the language that I haven't bothered to report, like when I was able to consistently discern where one word ended and another began.
Like when the sound of French stopped sounding like French; it was just a bunch of sounds I've heard in other languages put together in a different way.
Like the time I followed the Sunday School lesson and answered a question in a complex sentence that I didn't remember afterwards, which means I didn't pre-formulate it; it rolled off my tongue when I needed it!
Or the time I actually followed a Relief Society lesson (those are the worst).
Or at my birthday party, when one of my French friends said to another in French, "You wanna go?", right over my shoulders, and I said "What, are you bored?", and he flipped out that I had understood him (mainly as a cover for his social faux pas).
Or when I went on a date, and we spoke French until dessert.
Or when I could finally say my cell phone number in sets of double digit numbers (there's a 94 and a 77 in there; see this post for my struggle with stupid French numbers).
Or when I sing the hymns in French and my voice carries over all the quiet French singers, but I don't care because my pronunciation isn't that bad anymore.
Or all the times when I concentrate hard, and the language washes over me and sinks in, and I understand without a mental translation (sometimes I find myself nodding at the speaker like a goofball).
Or when I read a scripture out loud and feel pretty good about it.
Or when I actually conducted a phone conversation with a friend in French, just last night.
It is working! I am getting it! I am speaking it! And I love it. <3
*I have never thought that. Italian is so much prettier. The French nasal is bothersome (especially when people do the nasally French equivalent of "ummmm" after every phrase), and French rhythm is annoying compared to the musicality of Italian.
It happened yesterday, when I brought Jason Kabel to Family Home Evening. He'd been speaking Dutch to me all day, and I'd been answering in English or Dutch, depending on which one came to my lips first. I was understanding everything, but I felt sort of Dutch-stupid with the speaking thing. I'd say a sentence, Jason would look at me blankly, and I'd have to sort through each word to see which one I'd said in German. A couple times I felt like tearing my brain neatly in two; for example, when I realized that gekocht in Dutch is the PP of "to buy" and gekocht in German is the PP of "to cook".
o.O
Anyway. We made it to the institute center, and I said hi to some people in French and introduced Jason in French, but we soon switched into English so Jason could understand. As we turned to walk inside, I found myself looking forward to more French. I was craving it. I walked further inside and the sound of French bubbled up around me. And it sounded good. Not the "oh French is a beautiful language! the language of love!"* good, but the "aaahhh, the sound of the language I've been fighting for for so long and which is quicker to my mind that Dutch at the moment" good. And right then and there, I fell in love.
* * * * *
Like when the sound of French stopped sounding like French; it was just a bunch of sounds I've heard in other languages put together in a different way.
Like the time I followed the Sunday School lesson and answered a question in a complex sentence that I didn't remember afterwards, which means I didn't pre-formulate it; it rolled off my tongue when I needed it!
Or the time I actually followed a Relief Society lesson (those are the worst).
Or at my birthday party, when one of my French friends said to another in French, "You wanna go?", right over my shoulders, and I said "What, are you bored?", and he flipped out that I had understood him (mainly as a cover for his social faux pas).
Or when I went on a date, and we spoke French until dessert.
Or when I could finally say my cell phone number in sets of double digit numbers (there's a 94 and a 77 in there; see this post for my struggle with stupid French numbers).
Or when I sing the hymns in French and my voice carries over all the quiet French singers, but I don't care because my pronunciation isn't that bad anymore.
Or all the times when I concentrate hard, and the language washes over me and sinks in, and I understand without a mental translation (sometimes I find myself nodding at the speaker like a goofball).
Or when I read a scripture out loud and feel pretty good about it.
Or when I actually conducted a phone conversation with a friend in French, just last night.
It is working! I am getting it! I am speaking it! And I love it. <3
*I have never thought that. Italian is so much prettier. The French nasal is bothersome (especially when people do the nasally French equivalent of "ummmm" after every phrase), and French rhythm is annoying compared to the musicality of Italian.
Sophie's Strange Aversion
Watch this video for a shocking revelation:
Weird, right? She climbed into the stroller and refused to get out for the longest time, content to hold her toys, drink water, and watch people playing badminton on the lawn. That was fine my me; I started boning the right front panel of my stays. When she finally wanted to come out, she needed her feet to be shielded from the grass by her sweater.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Everyone Is Special...
...but sometimes I live in a moment when I feel UNIQUELY special. Like tonight, when a friend opened up and trusted me. Just me. And more that that, my presence changed him and helped to heal him in a moment that mattered. And he told me I was special, and suddenly I believed him. Like magic.
Perhaps, despite all the hype that mades "special" feel mundane, the original sentiment is true. Maybe the feeling I've had all my life that I am different and unique is valid. Maybe I don't need to push it away as if it were a gateway drug to Pride.
For just a moment, I'm going to let this sink in. Instead of brushing it off with "oh, anyone could have/would have done the same" or "well, it was just the right combination of circumstances", I'm going to believe it. You can try it, too, if you'd like.
It feels like flying.
Perhaps, despite all the hype that mades "special" feel mundane, the original sentiment is true. Maybe the feeling I've had all my life that I am different and unique is valid. Maybe I don't need to push it away as if it were a gateway drug to Pride.
For just a moment, I'm going to let this sink in. Instead of brushing it off with "oh, anyone could have/would have done the same" or "well, it was just the right combination of circumstances", I'm going to believe it. You can try it, too, if you'd like.
It feels like flying.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Old Friends
Jason Kabel is here in Paris right now!
He just up and decided to drive on over and spend a day or two catching up. Last I saw him was conference weekend in Salt Lake City in October 2009. Before that was when I visited the Netherlands for a bit from Florence in the spring of 2006. Before that was the summer of 2005 when I stopped over on my way (well, out of my way) to Cambridge in the UK. That was just three years after I returned from living in the Netherlands for a year. I have known Jason and his family for over ten years, now. That is unbelievable.
The Kabel family was my favorite. Tante Joan was my seminary teacher, and she and Oom Guus took me under their wing when I was truly homesick. Their three boys, Jason, Alexander, and Sebastiaan, took it upon themselves to tease me mercilessly like the good surrogate brothers they were. I was over at their house all the time. I learned Dutch with them. They took me to Denmark for a week on New Years, they took me rock rappelling, they took me to the zoo. Tante Joan sewed me a pair of white wide-leg pants for a school recital. I rode in their car for temple trips. I cried and yelled and laughed at their house.
Sometimes I wonder why I was blessed to find such wonderful people. I haven't married any of their sons. I haven't moved to the Netherlands. We keep in touch only sporadically, and I feel like my decayed Dutch might keep old friends at arm's length.
No, as far as I can tell, I met the Kabels just because Heavenly Father knew they would make me happy when we were together. A perfectly frivolous gift! I am so grateful.
He just up and decided to drive on over and spend a day or two catching up. Last I saw him was conference weekend in Salt Lake City in October 2009. Before that was when I visited the Netherlands for a bit from Florence in the spring of 2006. Before that was the summer of 2005 when I stopped over on my way (well, out of my way) to Cambridge in the UK. That was just three years after I returned from living in the Netherlands for a year. I have known Jason and his family for over ten years, now. That is unbelievable.
The Kabel family was my favorite. Tante Joan was my seminary teacher, and she and Oom Guus took me under their wing when I was truly homesick. Their three boys, Jason, Alexander, and Sebastiaan, took it upon themselves to tease me mercilessly like the good surrogate brothers they were. I was over at their house all the time. I learned Dutch with them. They took me to Denmark for a week on New Years, they took me rock rappelling, they took me to the zoo. Tante Joan sewed me a pair of white wide-leg pants for a school recital. I rode in their car for temple trips. I cried and yelled and laughed at their house.
Sometimes I wonder why I was blessed to find such wonderful people. I haven't married any of their sons. I haven't moved to the Netherlands. We keep in touch only sporadically, and I feel like my decayed Dutch might keep old friends at arm's length.
No, as far as I can tell, I met the Kabels just because Heavenly Father knew they would make me happy when we were together. A perfectly frivolous gift! I am so grateful.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Macaroon Taste Testing
I decided to buy some mini macaroons today from a very prestigious shop called Laduree.
They were 1.70 each, so I only got five, and I decided to taste test some unique flavors. Here, for example we have:
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| Lime Basil.....Violet Marshmallow.....Liquorish.....Salty Caramel.....Strawberry Poppy |
Lime Basil.
very fresh tasting. you can feel an herb in it, but it is not readily apparent that it is basil. the lime adds some lovely tartness to it. some sunshine. yum.
Violet Marshmallow.
spongier than the last one. tastes like a berry, but i suppose berries come from flowers so that makes sense. nice and sweet, calming.
Liquorish.
loose, like a cookie already dipped in milk. i'm getting a vaguely butterscotch flavor from the filling...ah here comes the liquorish on the back of the tongue, like anise usually does. very subtle. maybe too subtle?
Salty Caramel.
chewy consistency, the salt assaults you a second before the sweet does and stays behind on the tongue as they battle for supremacy. exciting!
Strawberry Poppy.
strawberry hits hard at first, but a nutty flavor follows quickly after. very much like jam on wheat toast. a bit typical.
I typed most of that right-handed as I took little bites, so you have all joined me for a brief moment of sensory experience! I should write macaroon reviews. Don't you think I have a unique way with words? Maybe later I will treat you all to a proxy taste of "Orange Blossom" or "Rose Petal" or "Lemon Lime Marshmallow"!
Finds At The Flea Market
I found two great things that I really want to buy but can't.
One is a curtain made of lovely antique cotton, block printed and looking like something from the 1780s. The curtain is huge and made up of three long lengths of selvedge to selvedge pieces, appropriately narrow for the time period. I think there is enough to make a round gown or a robe a l'anglaise and oh my oh my do I want to buy it and make one!
Next, I found a bodice from the 19teens that is in really good condition! It has so many layers and lace and net and satin and velvet, and I just want to study it inside and out and replicate it! I'm not sure is the skirt behind it goes with it, but that is lovely and simple as well. The bodice has some tears in the silk, so the woman was looking to sell it for 80 Euro, which I thought was a good deal. Liz says I could get her down to 60 if I tried haggling. Maybe I'll send Liz in there for me.
Perhaps the most interesting thing I saw at the Marche aux Puces, however, was this bell jar of baby body parts:
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| Robe a l'anglaise |
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| The curtain I want to buy. Problem: it was selling for 250 Euros!! |
Next, I found a bodice from the 19teens that is in really good condition! It has so many layers and lace and net and satin and velvet, and I just want to study it inside and out and replicate it! I'm not sure is the skirt behind it goes with it, but that is lovely and simple as well. The bodice has some tears in the silk, so the woman was looking to sell it for 80 Euro, which I thought was a good deal. Liz says I could get her down to 60 if I tried haggling. Maybe I'll send Liz in there for me.
Perhaps the most interesting thing I saw at the Marche aux Puces, however, was this bell jar of baby body parts:
What a fascinating place.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!! Online!!
The Internet is not the free and open place I thought it was.
P.S. I decided to lie to the internet and tell them that no matter what my IP address suggests, I'm actually in the US. Turns out the only correct answers are "US" or "UK". Why? That seems so arbitrary. I mean, what about Canada?
The internet believes me (suckers!), but in the end, the site doesn't even have Season 17. Thwarted once more.
Zoom in...
What? What's wrong with France?
Here I am, trying to find a nostalgic Mister Roger's Neighborhood episode (Season 17, Episode 5, the one where they unlock a hitherto unopened door in the Museum-Go-Round and find...something magical that I don't remember), and I am stopped in my tracks only because I am currently sitting in a place called France. I thought the internet transcended mortal boundaries!
Turns out I was wrong. So wrong. I can't watch Netflix because France doesn't have Netflix yet. I can't use my debit card online because my IP address is French! (I can't use my debit card at all, but that is another problem.)
Arise, Lovers of Liberty! Stand and Fight for a Just Cause!
Let us tear apart these Metaphysical Walls that keep our Brethren in Servitude and Ignorance!
Down with the Tyrants who Oppress the Free Flow of Knowledge, Entertainment, and Consumerism!
We shall see a New Day dawn for all Nations, Kindreds, Tongues, and People!
And will someone please put Mister Rogers on Youtube!!
P.S. I decided to lie to the internet and tell them that no matter what my IP address suggests, I'm actually in the US. Turns out the only correct answers are "US" or "UK". Why? That seems so arbitrary. I mean, what about Canada?
The internet believes me (suckers!), but in the end, the site doesn't even have Season 17. Thwarted once more.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Like Candy...
I love sewing. You don't even know. I just love moving the needle in and out, building shapes, creating form. It just thrills me! Don't ask me why, it just does.
So, I decided to start a huge project: hand sewing 18th century stays, like this extant pair:
I took a class in Boston at The Hive from Hallie Larkin who does this full-time (her blog is called, appropriately, "18th Century Stays"), and I saved the project for a moment when I would have a lot of time and no bulky equipment, i.e. when I went to Paris for the summer! So I get to amuse myself by sewing a million boning channels with teeny tiny stitches.
^-^
Here are the front pieces with all of the boning channels sewn!!
(I will have lacing holes in the front and back of my stays since I have no maid and no man to help me in and out of them.)
So, I decided to start a huge project: hand sewing 18th century stays, like this extant pair:
Ooooo... Aaaaah...
I took a class in Boston at The Hive from Hallie Larkin who does this full-time (her blog is called, appropriately, "18th Century Stays"), and I saved the project for a moment when I would have a lot of time and no bulky equipment, i.e. when I went to Paris for the summer! So I get to amuse myself by sewing a million boning channels with teeny tiny stitches.
^-^
Here are the front pieces with all of the boning channels sewn!!
(I will have lacing holes in the front and back of my stays since I have no maid and no man to help me in and out of them.)
 |
| The last short channels turned out different on each side. C'est la vie. |
 |
| Look at those careful stitches! |
 |
| Count 'em! 12 to the inch!!! I am amazing. |
Seriously, stitching is like eating candy. Truest metaphor I ever made.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
My Life's Work
I have a cause. It is to bring True Fairy Tales to light.
Did you know that the Little Mermaid loses the prince to a human princess?
Did you know that Snow White doesn't get woken up with a kiss?
Did you know that Sleeping Beauty's prince keeps their marriage a secret from his parents for two years?
Disney has made pretty little stories out of folk tales just as the 19th century made up folk costumes for it's peasants, adding embroideries and frills and ribbons where there weren't any. Even making up entire plot lines! Look at what they did to Rapunzel*! Don't get me wrong, I love Tangled, but little girls all over the world are losing one more True Fairy Tale without even knowing what they are missing!
What they are missing is cold and hard. It isn't always fair. Love doesn't solve problems. Problems sometimes don't even get solved. People aren't perfect, and princes don't save the day (they just seem to show up at just the right time to get all the credit). But that is just why I love them. They are kind of like life.
Whenever I hear a fairytale being discussed, a princess story being praised, I will raise my voice and tell the Real Stories, complete with blood, pain, and suicide (all kinds of "icide's", in fact!). I will do my part to make the world a better place!
*Also Puss in Boots. It's disgraceful.
Did you know that the Little Mermaid loses the prince to a human princess?
Did you know that Snow White doesn't get woken up with a kiss?
Did you know that Sleeping Beauty's prince keeps their marriage a secret from his parents for two years?
Disney has made pretty little stories out of folk tales just as the 19th century made up folk costumes for it's peasants, adding embroideries and frills and ribbons where there weren't any. Even making up entire plot lines! Look at what they did to Rapunzel*! Don't get me wrong, I love Tangled, but little girls all over the world are losing one more True Fairy Tale without even knowing what they are missing!
What they are missing is cold and hard. It isn't always fair. Love doesn't solve problems. Problems sometimes don't even get solved. People aren't perfect, and princes don't save the day (they just seem to show up at just the right time to get all the credit). But that is just why I love them. They are kind of like life.
Whenever I hear a fairytale being discussed, a princess story being praised, I will raise my voice and tell the Real Stories, complete with blood, pain, and suicide (all kinds of "icide's", in fact!). I will do my part to make the world a better place!
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I Need To Learn How To Scowl
I am standing on the platform, waiting for the metro and moving my feet in vague references to the dance steps we just worked on in class. This guy is smiling in my direction, but I can't tell if he is smiling at me, so I just ignore him.
The train comes, I get on.
This guy stands right next to me. And is still smiling at me.
There are only so many other places to look, especially when he then says "ça va?"
Drat. My first and only instinct is to look at him, smile, and say "oui, ça va."
I am an idiot.
This guy ends up telling me that meeting me was fate, that he already likes me, that his heart has spoken.
I don't know how to shake such persistence without being rude, and I don't really know how to do that. The tone of voice, the scowl, the firm shake of the head.. I just don't have those skills.
I try telling him the truth, that I don't want to give him my number, that I have had bad experiences with meeting random boys on the metro, and that I don't think this is how love is found. I try telling him that I don't know him at all. That he doesn't know me at all, how in the world does he think he likes me!
He is just urged on by my openness. He follows me OUT of the train and corners me on the sidewalk. "écoute, écoute," he keeps saying, "listen, listen." Oh, I'm listening. He is invading my bubble (an impressive feat if any of you know how small my bubble is), and I have to shove his arm off my shoulders. I think he just thinks it's endearing. I need to lose the nice-American-girl smile.
And then I remember the other reason that meeting random guys on the train is a bad idea: they very rarely (read: never) are Mormon. And if they aren't Mormon, they probably don't keep the law of chastity. And if they don't already keep the law of chastity, I don't want to be their first experiment with the idea! I've done that often enough, thank you very much, and it doesn't generally work out.
Now... how to say that in French...
In the end, I said something about being really religious, gave him my number, and we are meeting up on Thursday. I am giving him a For The Strength Of Youth pamphlet and a Book of Mormon (in French). I will then tell him that I will be his friend, but no more than that. We shall see who is talking about destiny THEN!
The train comes, I get on.
This guy stands right next to me. And is still smiling at me.
There are only so many other places to look, especially when he then says "ça va?"
Drat. My first and only instinct is to look at him, smile, and say "oui, ça va."
I am an idiot.
This guy ends up telling me that meeting me was fate, that he already likes me, that his heart has spoken.
I don't know how to shake such persistence without being rude, and I don't really know how to do that. The tone of voice, the scowl, the firm shake of the head.. I just don't have those skills.
I try telling him the truth, that I don't want to give him my number, that I have had bad experiences with meeting random boys on the metro, and that I don't think this is how love is found. I try telling him that I don't know him at all. That he doesn't know me at all, how in the world does he think he likes me!
He is just urged on by my openness. He follows me OUT of the train and corners me on the sidewalk. "écoute, écoute," he keeps saying, "listen, listen." Oh, I'm listening. He is invading my bubble (an impressive feat if any of you know how small my bubble is), and I have to shove his arm off my shoulders. I think he just thinks it's endearing. I need to lose the nice-American-girl smile.
And then I remember the other reason that meeting random guys on the train is a bad idea: they very rarely (read: never) are Mormon. And if they aren't Mormon, they probably don't keep the law of chastity. And if they don't already keep the law of chastity, I don't want to be their first experiment with the idea! I've done that often enough, thank you very much, and it doesn't generally work out.
Now... how to say that in French...
In the end, I said something about being really religious, gave him my number, and we are meeting up on Thursday. I am giving him a For The Strength Of Youth pamphlet and a Book of Mormon (in French). I will then tell him that I will be his friend, but no more than that. We shall see who is talking about destiny THEN!
UPDATE:
I told this guy that I'm Mormon, that religion (and the law of chastity) is important for me, and that I don't love him. He told me he believed in God, that he would marry me, and that I would come to love him with time. He EVEN tried to tell me that he is willing to sacrifice for me so I should be willing to sacrifice for him. THE NERVE OF THAT MAN!!!
At a certain point I threatened to leave the cafe without him, and he followed me out (leaving his coke unfinished--oh the sacrifices!!). He persisted until the very last second, until I grabbed his shoulder, kissed his cheeks, said good night, and walked away without looking back, hoping he would be smart enough not to follow me.
Done. I'm so done. Talking to this man is like being stuck in a Escher drawing. Though, I have to say, it took longer and was more frustrating, but I was eventually able to say no while staying myself, i.e. I didn't have to learn how to scowl in the end.
 |
| I WANT OUT! |
Monday, July 23, 2012
A Humorous Proposition
There is this kid in my stake named Tom. He is kind of loud and crazy. He just moved to Paris from the south, and I met him about a month ago at the Eiffel Tower with a big group of church friends. We pretend to beat up on each other at FHE. We split desserts at a restaurant one time, and as he was pushing half a brownie onto my plate, everyone started whistling at us like we were suddenly an item. He's a funny guy. Sometimes abrasive, but funny.
Tonight, about of million of us made an exodus after FHE to the McDonald's across the street (the French shorten it to "McDoh"). We were all milling around and chatting after eating when Tom came up to me. This is about what he said:
"American girls really like French guys, right? What is the dream of the American girl?"
I thought I knew what he was getting at, so I played along: "Falling in love with a French boy."
"Yes, and why?"
"Because they are supposed to be romantic (but I don't know about that)," I muttered, "and they have that accent."
"Right," he said, "French men are romantic. Because of the words we say and because of," and here he brandished his jazz hands, "our fingers. When we touch a girl, that girl has never felt something like that before."
Lots of incredulous snorting and silly giggling from me and the other girls.
"An American girl," he declared, "who has had a massage from a French guy will go home to her friends and say that it was the best massage she has ever had. She will never forget it. It was wonderful. So, if you ever want a massage from a French guy, you just come to me, and I will happy to give you one."
What a sales pitch! I hooted with laughter (along with the ten other people around us), but as I thought about it I became gravely serious for a moment and turned back to look him in the eye. "I may actually take you up on that," I said. And he smiled.
Tonight, about of million of us made an exodus after FHE to the McDonald's across the street (the French shorten it to "McDoh"). We were all milling around and chatting after eating when Tom came up to me. This is about what he said:
"American girls really like French guys, right? What is the dream of the American girl?"
I thought I knew what he was getting at, so I played along: "Falling in love with a French boy."
"Yes, and why?"
"Because they are supposed to be romantic (but I don't know about that)," I muttered, "and they have that accent."
"Right," he said, "French men are romantic. Because of the words we say and because of," and here he brandished his jazz hands, "our fingers. When we touch a girl, that girl has never felt something like that before."
Lots of incredulous snorting and silly giggling from me and the other girls.
"An American girl," he declared, "who has had a massage from a French guy will go home to her friends and say that it was the best massage she has ever had. She will never forget it. It was wonderful. So, if you ever want a massage from a French guy, you just come to me, and I will happy to give you one."
What a sales pitch! I hooted with laughter (along with the ten other people around us), but as I thought about it I became gravely serious for a moment and turned back to look him in the eye. "I may actually take you up on that," I said. And he smiled.
Today
 |
| I am way too lazy right now to flip this photo the right way up. |
During our morning walk, we passed a garbage picker going through the trash cans. When he opened one, this soccer ball fell out onto the sidewalk and rolled over to us. So we took it home. Looks clean, doesn't smell weird, it's ours now!
Sophie went over to this very girly window of dresses entirely on her own accord. They were quite pretty.
Sophie learned the hard way this morning that she ought to keep her toys close. A couple different kids started using her red cup in the sandbox, sometimes when she wasn't using it, but sometimes when she was. Once she came over to me with tears in her eyes when one little girl refused to give it back to her. I told her we'd wait till the girl put it down and then we'd snatch it up. Well, when the little girl put it down, Sophie was busy doing something else, so I didn't intervene until the cherished red cup was in danger of being taken home by some little boy. She's learning to guard it carefully if she wants it to be around when she needs it.
What I Loved At Versailles And Also What I Hated
What I hated was the crowds in the chateau. It was stupid packed. Like, we would all have died in the event of an emergency. There were huge tour groups and everyone wielded high-end cameras.
Eventually I gave up trying to enjoy myself and just worked on escaping, but trying to get out of the palace was like trying to swim through an iceberg.
Eventually I gave up trying to enjoy myself and just worked on escaping, but trying to get out of the palace was like trying to swim through an iceberg.
OTHER than that, I loved several things.
Mainly, being my myself after a crazy weekend.
Also, the lovely weather and the strawberry ice cream I ate.
Further, seeing where so many 18th century stories took place.
I absolutely ADORED Marie Antoinette's world. The Petit Trianon itself (her mini palace) was kind of boring to look at. Beautifully restored and entirely staid. But walk through into the gardens and you walk into a pastoral paradise.
She built a mini hamlet complete with a mill, a dairy, and vegetable gardens, and populated it with real animals and peasants. She would walk around with her close friends in her simple poverty-inspired outfits to escape the pressures of court. There were paths through meadows and around ponds, into patches of forest and leading to cool grottos.
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| (This image is not contemporary to MA. I'm pretty sure.) |
I didn't take every path, partially because I was tired, having only slept for four hours the night before, but partially because I want to save some secrets for the next time I come. I daydreamed about walking around in a flowing white linen gown with delicate ruffles, spring-green silk taffeta petticoat, and ribbons. Lots of ribbons. Corset, straw hat, period shoes. And a picnic. It was a wonderful dream.
I've been warned that a friend of a friend of a reenactor friend was not allowed into the Versailles buildings in 18th century garb. Something about "upsetting" other visitors.
Humph.
We shall see.
I'm Getting Too Old To Stay Up All Night
This weekend I went to a friend's birthday party. He was actually born on the same day as me (i.e. last Tuesday if you didn't get the memo) but five years later. His party was really great, with a full dinner served at a lovely table set up outside and dance music blasting and a trampoline and two snakes! One of the snakes curled around my neck and hung out with me for a while. It was funny to watch the boys squeal and squirm.
At a little before midnight, we all set out for a club in Paris. That is, we started to look like we were setting out, but we didn't actually get in cars and start going anywhere for almost an hour. I find that the French people I hang out with are not good at getting moving. I don't know if this is a national phenomenon or if it just bothers me more in France because I can't follow the apparently completely absorbing small talk going on around me. Either way, I was standing around in the freezing cold for a really long time, not understanding why we weren't going anywhere. Then, when we actually arrived at the dock where the boat that had the club in it was moored (yup, a floating club on the Seine!), we waited outside in the freezing cold for another twenty minutes, waiting for everyone else! There was a moment or two when I seriously doubted my sanity in joining this expedition, but the dancing made up for my turmoil in the end. :)
Funny thing. Of the nine of us who boarded the club, I was the oldest by a good three years. At least. And guess who was the only one carded. The bouncer who looked at my CT driver's license asked me if it was real. But I suppose the age I claimed to be was so wildly older than I looked that it had to be true! In the end, I got in.
Later, as I was joining my friends on an upper deck, the same bouncer called me over to tell me that I was a "very beautiful woman". I thanked him and started walking away (I like my compliments without strings attached), but he started some small talk. When I told him that I was only here for the summer and he said, "So we only have two months to amuse ourselves?", I figured he wasn't the kind of guy I'm looking for. He asked me out for drinks sometime, and I told him I'd think about it. Too bad I didn't happen to see him again for the rest of the night...
By the time the dancing was winding down (around 4:30 am), the birthday boy asked me how I was getting home.
"I'm staying at your house"
"You are?"
"Yeah, you said I could when I asked you on Facebook."
"I did?"
Groan.
What followed was very stressful for me and the birthday boy. I was the sixth person going back to his house, and the one car that was supposed to get us there didn't have space for all of us. If you ask me, we could've squished in, but apparently the car would have ridden really low to the ground and if the police had pulled us over the driver would've gotten in trouble. Of course this is the same driver who drove back down a one way road on the sidewalk to get to a parking space. He didn't seem too concerned with legality then, but oh well. He volunteered to make two trips to get us all back.
Everything worked out in the end, but I felt like a horrible guest to my host and a horrible co-guest to those people who waited around for the second trip, even though it wasn't my fault!
I went to bed around 6:30 am. At least there was a cute little cat who curled up next to me and purred me to sleep. And the host didn't hate me too much, because as I was crawling into my sleeping bag he told me how charming I am and how he can't understand why I'm not married yet (more on this theme later), which I am determined to take as a compliment.
What a night.
At a little before midnight, we all set out for a club in Paris. That is, we started to look like we were setting out, but we didn't actually get in cars and start going anywhere for almost an hour. I find that the French people I hang out with are not good at getting moving. I don't know if this is a national phenomenon or if it just bothers me more in France because I can't follow the apparently completely absorbing small talk going on around me. Either way, I was standing around in the freezing cold for a really long time, not understanding why we weren't going anywhere. Then, when we actually arrived at the dock where the boat that had the club in it was moored (yup, a floating club on the Seine!), we waited outside in the freezing cold for another twenty minutes, waiting for everyone else! There was a moment or two when I seriously doubted my sanity in joining this expedition, but the dancing made up for my turmoil in the end. :)
Funny thing. Of the nine of us who boarded the club, I was the oldest by a good three years. At least. And guess who was the only one carded. The bouncer who looked at my CT driver's license asked me if it was real. But I suppose the age I claimed to be was so wildly older than I looked that it had to be true! In the end, I got in.
Later, as I was joining my friends on an upper deck, the same bouncer called me over to tell me that I was a "very beautiful woman". I thanked him and started walking away (I like my compliments without strings attached), but he started some small talk. When I told him that I was only here for the summer and he said, "So we only have two months to amuse ourselves?", I figured he wasn't the kind of guy I'm looking for. He asked me out for drinks sometime, and I told him I'd think about it. Too bad I didn't happen to see him again for the rest of the night...
By the time the dancing was winding down (around 4:30 am), the birthday boy asked me how I was getting home.
"I'm staying at your house"
"You are?"
"Yeah, you said I could when I asked you on Facebook."
"I did?"
Groan.
What followed was very stressful for me and the birthday boy. I was the sixth person going back to his house, and the one car that was supposed to get us there didn't have space for all of us. If you ask me, we could've squished in, but apparently the car would have ridden really low to the ground and if the police had pulled us over the driver would've gotten in trouble. Of course this is the same driver who drove back down a one way road on the sidewalk to get to a parking space. He didn't seem too concerned with legality then, but oh well. He volunteered to make two trips to get us all back.
Everything worked out in the end, but I felt like a horrible guest to my host and a horrible co-guest to those people who waited around for the second trip, even though it wasn't my fault!
I went to bed around 6:30 am. At least there was a cute little cat who curled up next to me and purred me to sleep. And the host didn't hate me too much, because as I was crawling into my sleeping bag he told me how charming I am and how he can't understand why I'm not married yet (more on this theme later), which I am determined to take as a compliment.
What a night.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Everything I Hate About Shopping In One Place
I went out looking for a fleece jacket in Paris today.
Sophie and I first went to this store called Au Vieux Campeur this afternoon, which is actually two dozen small boutiques all situated on two city blocks. I guess they didn't want to buy up the whole block and make one big store, which has saved the neighborhood, I'm sure, but it made it awfully inconvenient for me to find what I was looking for. Slash, I didn't. Find what I was looking for, I mean. Fleeces are hugely expensive, turns out, and adding pockets adds 20 Euro to the price! I should have known.
I decided to check out normal stores, to see if something without the NorthFace label wouldn't be a bit cheaper. I went to the big mall Lafayette, just down the hill from me.
It was a horrible experience.
First of all, it was chock full of tourists. People seem to save up all their money for years, just to come and blow it all in Paris. That is a silly idea, if you ask me. The same high-end labels are available all around the world. Why crowd this place and then spend a billion more dollars shipping it all home?
Secondly, there was no variety. All of the stores were set up in the open, bazaar-style, and I couldn't tell where one brand ended and another began. I was assuming a shopping center might have one section for the classy adults, another place for those crazy kids, maybe something else for the relaxed human. Nope, everything was equally snazzy, of the snazz type that you can smell from a mile away.
That's the third thing: I could tell without even looking at tags that the simplest, cheapest item was going to be way above my price range, and even way above what I would consider spending on any one thing, period. There's an aura around such products that rebuffs me and gives me a headache. Most clothing items I've seen in Paris are prohibitively expensive, though. Even second-hand stores (here they call them "vintage", but don't take that word too seriously) sell dresses from the eighties (read: seriously ugly dresses) for stupid prices, like 80 Euro. Cross my heart, I saw that once. I almost laughed out loud in the store.
Fourth, everyone was swooshing around in a rush to GET MORE STUFF. Greed was a palpable presence, pressing every heart in a macabre mimicry of happiness. The lowest floor selling perfumes, watches, and handbags was ridiculous. I can't even convey the jostling, the urgency... And the curious thing was that every person there looked middle-class. No one looked rich or important. What were they all doing there? What were they going to buy? One thousand-dollar handbag? One fur coat? One swishy skirt that cost 188 Euro (the only thing I looked at closely)? What consumption. These high-end lines have it made. They have us eating out of the palms of their hands.
Fifth, shopping in Paris made me realize that Parisians really are prissy compared to Americans. That sentence can be turned around to read: "Americans are sloppy compared to Parisians", but I'm biased. Utility, Practicality? Couldn't find it. I just want a simple jacket, people! I have no idea where to find that here. I will probably end up going back to Au Vieux Campeur and spending an arm and a leg for this fleece. Serves me right for not finding one at home in the first place.
In the end, I dragged my depressed self up the hill and back home without having looked closely at a single thing, much less bought anything. I weep for the human race.
Sophie and I first went to this store called Au Vieux Campeur this afternoon, which is actually two dozen small boutiques all situated on two city blocks. I guess they didn't want to buy up the whole block and make one big store, which has saved the neighborhood, I'm sure, but it made it awfully inconvenient for me to find what I was looking for. Slash, I didn't. Find what I was looking for, I mean. Fleeces are hugely expensive, turns out, and adding pockets adds 20 Euro to the price! I should have known.
I decided to check out normal stores, to see if something without the NorthFace label wouldn't be a bit cheaper. I went to the big mall Lafayette, just down the hill from me.
It was a horrible experience.First of all, it was chock full of tourists. People seem to save up all their money for years, just to come and blow it all in Paris. That is a silly idea, if you ask me. The same high-end labels are available all around the world. Why crowd this place and then spend a billion more dollars shipping it all home?
Secondly, there was no variety. All of the stores were set up in the open, bazaar-style, and I couldn't tell where one brand ended and another began. I was assuming a shopping center might have one section for the classy adults, another place for those crazy kids, maybe something else for the relaxed human. Nope, everything was equally snazzy, of the snazz type that you can smell from a mile away.
That's the third thing: I could tell without even looking at tags that the simplest, cheapest item was going to be way above my price range, and even way above what I would consider spending on any one thing, period. There's an aura around such products that rebuffs me and gives me a headache. Most clothing items I've seen in Paris are prohibitively expensive, though. Even second-hand stores (here they call them "vintage", but don't take that word too seriously) sell dresses from the eighties (read: seriously ugly dresses) for stupid prices, like 80 Euro. Cross my heart, I saw that once. I almost laughed out loud in the store.
Fourth, everyone was swooshing around in a rush to GET MORE STUFF. Greed was a palpable presence, pressing every heart in a macabre mimicry of happiness. The lowest floor selling perfumes, watches, and handbags was ridiculous. I can't even convey the jostling, the urgency... And the curious thing was that every person there looked middle-class. No one looked rich or important. What were they all doing there? What were they going to buy? One thousand-dollar handbag? One fur coat? One swishy skirt that cost 188 Euro (the only thing I looked at closely)? What consumption. These high-end lines have it made. They have us eating out of the palms of their hands.
Fifth, shopping in Paris made me realize that Parisians really are prissy compared to Americans. That sentence can be turned around to read: "Americans are sloppy compared to Parisians", but I'm biased. Utility, Practicality? Couldn't find it. I just want a simple jacket, people! I have no idea where to find that here. I will probably end up going back to Au Vieux Campeur and spending an arm and a leg for this fleece. Serves me right for not finding one at home in the first place.
In the end, I dragged my depressed self up the hill and back home without having looked closely at a single thing, much less bought anything. I weep for the human race.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
My 10 Favorite Moments From This Weekend
(not necessarily in this order)
1. finding myself utterly alone in the Chatelet metro station and deciding to go to the firemen's ball by myself.
2. discovering a tiny, untamed patch of park just up the hill from my house where I sat on the grass in the sun, remembering my earliest childhood memories and writing my personal history.
3. realizing that Sophie is calling me "Dra"!
4. booking it down the boulevard on the left bank of the Seine with a pack of French boys to make it to the fireworks on time.
5. watching Sophie walk over to me with that adorable grin on her face as soon as I get up in the mornings and when she gets home from outings with her mom.
6. bearing testimony of the gospel several times over the course of a very protracted conversation on the Law of Chastity, never feeling ashamed, and growing ever stronger in my conviction.
7. feeling interesting and intriguing and unique and desired as good company.
8. jumping the turnstile to get into the metro station in time for the last train of the night (I have a monthly pass that ought to work, but I think they just locked up the turnstile before the last train arrived, for some French reason. There were police standing around, watching everyone jump the gate, doing nothing. Even so, it made me feel hard core.)
9. singing the first verse of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah over and over on the walk to the Champs Elysees in the middle of the Parisian night.
10. viewing the fireworks from the perfect spot right by the Eiffel Tower decorated with a gigantic disco ball.
so good :)
1. finding myself utterly alone in the Chatelet metro station and deciding to go to the firemen's ball by myself.
2. discovering a tiny, untamed patch of park just up the hill from my house where I sat on the grass in the sun, remembering my earliest childhood memories and writing my personal history.
3. realizing that Sophie is calling me "Dra"!
4. booking it down the boulevard on the left bank of the Seine with a pack of French boys to make it to the fireworks on time.
5. watching Sophie walk over to me with that adorable grin on her face as soon as I get up in the mornings and when she gets home from outings with her mom.
6. bearing testimony of the gospel several times over the course of a very protracted conversation on the Law of Chastity, never feeling ashamed, and growing ever stronger in my conviction.
7. feeling interesting and intriguing and unique and desired as good company.
8. jumping the turnstile to get into the metro station in time for the last train of the night (I have a monthly pass that ought to work, but I think they just locked up the turnstile before the last train arrived, for some French reason. There were police standing around, watching everyone jump the gate, doing nothing. Even so, it made me feel hard core.)
9. singing the first verse of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah over and over on the walk to the Champs Elysees in the middle of the Parisian night.
10. viewing the fireworks from the perfect spot right by the Eiffel Tower decorated with a gigantic disco ball.
so good :)
Friday, July 13, 2012
Un Bal
Every year on Bastille Day Eve and Bastille Day itself, the firefighters of Paris host huge dance parties at their fire houses.
It is a faintly odd custom, but I really wanted to go to one, so after Institute I hung out with a group of people with a few very promising candidates for the post of dance-party-partner. We walked across town to eat mexican food, but I just ate pecan pie, since I had already had two dinners. (Well, three, if you count my snack of scraping out the Nutella jar and slicing gouda off the wedge an hour before my first dinner. Yes, I think I might have a problem).
Then we walked back across town to get McD's ice cream for dessert (don't worry, I completely passed on that course). By this time I had one guy psyched to go with me, but by the time we all got down to the subway, everyone was going their own way, and suddenly I found myself all alone. When I say suddenly, I mean all of a sudden! I think it has something to do with not understanding French, but the guy who was going to come with me ran off down one hall. I thought he was just catching up with someone to tell them something and that he would come back, but he never did. The remaining people took an escalator down and the last I heard my friend Vicki say was "We'll go dancing another day..."
Well then.
I decided to go dancing myself.
Or at the very least, I would walk past the firehouse on my street and see what was going on, if it was worth staying, if it was totally sketch, or if it was cool. Three blocks away from the party, the street was barricaded and streams of people were headed in the direction of really loud music. It was legit. I stood in line for half an hour, sharing my umbrella with a nice British girl, just to get in to the party.
Unfortunately, the music got lame five minutes after I got in, going from house mixes of top-40 songs to semi-rhythmic eighties rock, half of which was French. Everyone else loved it, sang at the top of their lungs, and all I could bring myself to do was step in time to the beat.
I attached myself to a small group of girls because dancing European men are very predatory, and I felt vulnerable alone. As it was, several of them hovered around our dancing circle, watching us, trying to engage us.
I got stepped on by a high heel, so that hurt.
I eventually reached the conclusion that the music wasn't going to get any better for dancine and left. I was right. As I was walking up the hill towards my house, I heard Latin music starting up. I'm glad I got away!
So: exciting but a bit of a let down.
I am going to try again tomorrow.
It is a faintly odd custom, but I really wanted to go to one, so after Institute I hung out with a group of people with a few very promising candidates for the post of dance-party-partner. We walked across town to eat mexican food, but I just ate pecan pie, since I had already had two dinners. (Well, three, if you count my snack of scraping out the Nutella jar and slicing gouda off the wedge an hour before my first dinner. Yes, I think I might have a problem).
Then we walked back across town to get McD's ice cream for dessert (don't worry, I completely passed on that course). By this time I had one guy psyched to go with me, but by the time we all got down to the subway, everyone was going their own way, and suddenly I found myself all alone. When I say suddenly, I mean all of a sudden! I think it has something to do with not understanding French, but the guy who was going to come with me ran off down one hall. I thought he was just catching up with someone to tell them something and that he would come back, but he never did. The remaining people took an escalator down and the last I heard my friend Vicki say was "We'll go dancing another day..."
Well then.
I decided to go dancing myself.
Or at the very least, I would walk past the firehouse on my street and see what was going on, if it was worth staying, if it was totally sketch, or if it was cool. Three blocks away from the party, the street was barricaded and streams of people were headed in the direction of really loud music. It was legit. I stood in line for half an hour, sharing my umbrella with a nice British girl, just to get in to the party.
Unfortunately, the music got lame five minutes after I got in, going from house mixes of top-40 songs to semi-rhythmic eighties rock, half of which was French. Everyone else loved it, sang at the top of their lungs, and all I could bring myself to do was step in time to the beat.
I attached myself to a small group of girls because dancing European men are very predatory, and I felt vulnerable alone. As it was, several of them hovered around our dancing circle, watching us, trying to engage us.
I got stepped on by a high heel, so that hurt.
I eventually reached the conclusion that the music wasn't going to get any better for dancine and left. I was right. As I was walking up the hill towards my house, I heard Latin music starting up. I'm glad I got away!
So: exciting but a bit of a let down.
I am going to try again tomorrow.
Bye Dai
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Observations On The Many Qualities Of Mousse
I have made mousse here quite a few times and each time has been different. The first time was a bit too sweet for my taste. So instead of 2/3 cup sugar (ish--I have no measuring implements), I put in about a 1/4 cup the second time. Now the sweetness to chocolate ratio was perfect, but the mousse manifested an interesting texture division, with the chewier stuff at the top and the fluffier stuff on the bottom. So I tried again, deciding that I needed to beat the eggs a bit more so that there wouldn't be any fluffy stuff to settle to the bottom. But this time, I only had about 110g of butter instead of 170, so I used 3 eggs instead of 4. I also minimized the sugar drastically, since the French recipe on the chocolate wrapper doesn't use ANY sugar at all, and I wanted to see how sweet I like it. It turned out quite bitter, and I think I like attempt #2's amount of sweetening best. I did beat the eggs more, which did turn out a consistent consistency, but the consistency is consistently light. Like a cloud. I think the 3 eggs was a tad more egg than the 110g of butter and chocolate needed. I like it chewier.
So. Next time I will make sure to err more on the side of more chocolate than less, and a medium amount of sugar, and well-beaten eggs.
This is pretty fun, and my mousse making is getting super fast and easy! I have a delicious future...
So. Next time I will make sure to err more on the side of more chocolate than less, and a medium amount of sugar, and well-beaten eggs.
This is pretty fun, and my mousse making is getting super fast and easy! I have a delicious future...
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Baby's First McDonalds!
Dai and I got McD's one night when Liz' stomach was on a bread and water diet, and Sophie scarfed down french fries like there was no tomorrow. She even got a few bites of cheeseburger. I just had to document the moment, while Liz and Dai groaned that they would be deemed bad parents by the world in general if these pics ever got out. So let's keep it our cute little secret.
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| Yum. |
Sophie at the Louvre
Sophie and I went to the Louvre today and spent more time than ever before looking at art!
Here are some pics from last time:
We've generally spent a lot of time playing in the open space of the sculpture gallery, but this time I had some grander ambitions. We were going to wander the galleries and look at art and artifacts for a really long time. That was really the extent of my ambition. Basically, I didn't want to retreat to the sculpture gallery. Sculptures are all well and good, but this girl is getting bored of these ones.
Healthy AND cultured. Man, I'm a good nanny*.
Here are some pics from last time:
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| Sophie is getting a good view of the gallery. |
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| Sophie sitting in the docent's chair! |
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| Us with the horse picture Sophie seemed to like. |
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| And she really liked this big animal painting above the door! |
So we started out in the Napoleon III-style rooms, which are full of period furnishings, quite lavish. All the old stuff is sharing space with some modern art by Wim Devoye, a rather irreverent guy who apparently likes tattooing pigs. I like his gothic-inspired stuff, like this nautilus thing:
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| Not my pic, but this is the Nautilus in situ at the Louvre |
Sophie is a very good museum goer. She is quite quiet in general so she doesn't cause much fuss except when she wants to test the echo in a room. Unfortunately, galleries in museums tend to be very interesting acoustically, so she will often burst out with a "DA!" or two in a new room. She took my hand and walked through the furnished rooms, touching the velvet ropes and craning her head to see the ceiling and waving at people. Then we went to the Northern European paintings gallery (my favorite) and we took some super cute pictures on the benches:
And then she fell off the bench, flat on her face.
Yup, she lost her balance and fell forward, and her noggin hit the floor before I could catch her! A lady walking past did the same instinctual jerky motion towards her, but the damage was done. Poor Sophie! She SCREAMED! I scooped her up and held her close and took her to the elevator alcove, where her crying wouldn't echo quite as much. She calmed down pretty quickly, actually, once I took out the bottle. She's a tough cookie. And in less than five minutes we were walking through the gallery again! I was determined that we wouldn't slink away, ashamed for crying in a museum. And lo and behold, no one said a word to us! Babies in museums CAN be done! And here we are, happy again:
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| I love this pic :) |
We explored some of the Middle Eastern art, too, and Sophie fell in love with this lion:
We were so cultured today!
Then we went outside and were healthy by eating an apple.
*Briefly overlooking the huge bruise on her head...
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