20 September, 2006 | 1 Comment
I have finally found a brand of soy milk here that doesn’t make me gag.
Archive for September, 2006
19 September, 2006 | 6 Comments
Via Bitch Ph.D., a call to boycott HP and their digital cameras that feature a “slimming effect,” which can make the subject in a photo appear thinner. Their site says: “With the slimming feature, anyone can appear more slender — instantly!” Yes, this is just what our culture needs — after all, not enough people have eating disorders. You know what, Hewlett-Packard? Go to hell and then some, you soulless irresponsible bastards.
Tags: Hewlett-Packard, Moral Bankruptcy
19 September, 2006 | 4 Comments
My first couple weeks in Paris, I wrote a bit about how I was in a funk, which is just a sanitized way of saying “depressed.” I didn’t think I wrote about it too much, but given the reactions I’ve received from people, I guess it was more of an overwhelming theme of my posts than I realized.
It’s my intention to be honest in my writing on this site and elsewhere. I obviously withhold a lot of things about my life since I’m not a complete exhibitionist, but what I do write is a genuine representation of what I’m thinking and feeling. And I couldn’t write about my life without writing about the intense feelings I experienced upon moving here. I felt it was important for a number of reasons. My life may seem glamourous, what with moving to Paris and traveling all over the U.S. this summer, etc. But I don’t want to participate in a charade or create a mythology surrounding myself. I’ve been lucky enough to live in some amazing places, true, but life is life wherever you live it. That’s one lesson I’ve learned over and over again.
I am no stranger to depression and I have no qualms writing about it. It’s a normal human response, just like love or happiness or fear. But it’s clear to me now that this topic makes many people uncomfortable, as if it’s something I should keep to myself, lest I bring everyone down or give the impression that there’s something wrong with me. As I grappled with this realization, I turned to one of my wisest friends, a writer who has written extensively on depression. I told her that I was (rather naively) surprised that after writing about this topic more openly than I ever have before on my blog, I was suddenly feeling somewhat stigmatized, that even some of my friends seemed like they were avoiding me (which is just what a depressed person needs). My friend told me that she wasn’t surprised, that we’re expected to be silent on the topic of depression, that it can often be construed as a sign of weak-mindedness. She said that we’re encouraged to put on a happy face, even if we don’t feel happy. (This is probably especially true of Americans.) To discuss depression, one risks being shunned. Sadly, I think she’s right.
This is all the more reason to write about it, of course. Writing is therapeutic for me and I think these feelings are a legitimate topic for discussion. I’m not going to dwell on feeling depressed, but I refuse to leave it unacknowledged. My feelings of depression do not mean that I wish I hadn’t moved to Paris or that I don’t like it here — not at all. I’m thrilled to be here and I’m excited to learn French and experience life in this city. I don’t regret moving here for a second. It’s just that when I arrived, a lot of things hit me all at once and it was often easier to stay in bed and pull the covers over my head than go outside and face this strange new world. I often get this way during times of transition. And to make matters worse, I had spent part of the summer surrounded by my family and closest friends and then I was suddenly alone in a new city, completely and utterly alone. There was a great deal of culture shock mixed in with that initial depression as well. Given my temperament, this was all a recipe for disaster.
The good news is that I am feeling a lot better now, more settled, more capable of figuring out how to live my life here. I still feel blue sometimes, but these feelings won’t last forever and they aren’t overwhelming me anymore. What I’ve felt during this major transition is perfectly valid and normal for me — perhaps not for others, but this is how I experience things. Feeling the way I do after just moving to Paris (of all places) may seem a bit incongruous, but this is my honest response to these changes in my life. I had to own it. And I did. Now I can move on.
19 September, 2006 | 3 Comments
This morning I woke up and on an impulse, removed the piercing from my nose that’s been there for three years. I have never been tempted to do this before, not once. I have no idea why I awoke this morning determined to remove it, but it was such an overwhelming urge that I didn’t hesitate. It was a laborious and painful process (if you’ve ever seen the inside of a nose piercing, you’ll know why). But now I’m glad it was painful because transitions are painful and that’s what my life is right now — transition upon transition upon transition. It felt good to feel real physical pain after a rocky few weeks of inner turmoil and ache.
I have no intention of putting the piercing back in again. I don’t want to be that woman anymore.
Where the piercing was, there is now a small hole. I’m not sure if this will bother me over time, if I’ll decide I need to fill it again. I don’t want to, but I reserve the right. That’s the bad thing about these bodily markings we’re all so fond of nowadays, these “acts of individualism that are anything but.” They leave a mark, a scar, long after what they were meant to express is irrelevant. But then perhaps the remnant of what used to be, that mark on the body that reminds us of our previous stupid choices, is what we craved all along. Something permanent to remind us of who we used to be, in case we try to forget.
Now when I look at my face in the mirror I see the whiteness of my skin and the smattering of freckles and the lines that didn’t use to be there. I see my face again, unmarked, just me — a blank slate, like my life.
18 September, 2006 | 12 Comments
I have between today and October 3rd to go to the university and register for my courses. Someone please make me do this before October 3rd. Any takers? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
The advantages of being a student in France: The very real possibility of getting to participate in a demonstration turned riot. Tear gas in the Latin Quarter. I’m looking forward to it already.
In other news, I just now remembered I was supposed to go to the Préfecture de Police to register as a filthy immigrant during my first week here. I wonder how you say “oops” in French? Oh well, merde will do.
17 September, 2006 | 1 Comment
There’s a wise American friend on the other end of a transatlantic telephone line. Thank you. The bad thing about e-mail and telephones: Can’t hug you. xx
17 September, 2006 | 2 Comments
A year ago today I posted something on Anglofille for the first time. It’s my one-year blog-iversary! I got two hours of sleep last night (if that), but still, let’s celebrate. I’ll try to keep a lid on the self-reflection as much as possible, given that I’ve been over-dosing on that lately.
On the one-year anniversary of my first post, I would have never imagined I’d be living in Paris now, but then nothing about this past year has turned out the way I thought it would. When I started Anglofille, I had been in London for two days and at that point it seemed like I would spend all my time sending e-mails to people back home, telling them about my new life. So I decided to start a blog because I was lazy. In one of my first posts, I actually published my address — well, I wrote that I lived on Lansdowne Terrace, but there is only one building on Lansdowne Terrace, my former residence. [BTW, one of the great things about tiny Lansdowne Terrace is that taxi drivers never know where it is and this pisses them off. And to have a passenger -- an American! -- tell them how to get there made them bristle. Why do I get such perverse pleasure from such things?] Rather stupidly, I left this post up for months. The first rule of fight club blogging: Do not publish your home address.
I really didn’t like blogging at first and after a few months I was going to call it quits because it was just one more thing I had to do each day. But for some reason I stuck with it and found my voice soon after and now I guess you could say I love it.
I love it, but I feel conflicted about it. Blogging is a very egotistical pursuit, let’s face it. It’s all about me and what I think about things. I used to write a lot more about “issues” but for the past few months I’ve been completely wrapped up in the drama of my own life. It’s been a tumultuous time and I haven’t been able to look past that. But I want to start writing again about other things besides myself. I think the best blogs are converations between people — friends and strangers and other bloggers — about life and the world we live in.
I also feel conflicted because blogging takes time away from my fiction writing. I believe that a person only has so much creative energy available to her in one day and this energy is precious. I spend quite a bit of it on my blog and that’s the only downside. But I justify it by telling myself that I do this instead of keeping a journal. I’m not a person who has ever kept a journal. That’s rather strange for a writer, but I have never been able to do it with any regularity. And so in many ways, this blog is my journal, a record of what I’m doing and thinking and feeling during this time in my life. And it’s certainly helped me put my London (and now Paris) experiences into perspective, because I have to think about how I’ll write about it. And so it forces me to slow down and observe more closely what’s going on around me. And that’s a good thing and it’s something that will benefit my fiction writing.
The most surprising thing about blogging has been the fact that I’ve made friends this way. I never thought this would happen and it has been a delightful benefit. I also think of those of you who comment regularly as friends, even if I don’t know you personally. I think Hallmark should invent a line of cards for blog-commenters, don’t you?
Now that I’ve relocated to France, my readership has increased (not sure why) but my UK readers have dwindled quite a bit. I’ll try not to take this personally! To those of you in the UK still reading, I just want to thank you for being good-natured about the stuff I published on Anglofille over the last year. I know I can be quite opinionated and I hope I didn’t unintentionally offend anyone with my observations or assumptions about life in the UK. People rarely expressed any such sentiments to me, but I just want you all to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for your culture — otherwise, I wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to figure it out.
I must also thank The Vol Abroad for being the first blogger to link to me. Her blog introduced me to the other American expat bloggers in London and made me feel like my blog was part of a larger community. I think that played a large part in my decision to stick with it in the early days.
[This is starting to sound like an Oscar acceptance speech -- sorry!]
So just to recap the past year, a few lists:
Most Popular Posts (meaning, posts with the most hits, mostly because of links from other websites and Google searches):
[Calling All Perverts is the only post on this list that I like. Two of them -- and I think you know which ones -- are quite embarrassing and not very good.]
Most Popular Google Searches (aside from “Anglofille”) that have led people to my blog (in order):
Girlkind (I think I only used this term once. Apparently it’s not used too often. Pity.)
Bloodline of Jesus Christ (Huh? One of my Da Vinci Code rants, I guess)
Gwyneth Paltrow Planned Parenthood (Could be any number of posts!)
Tesco Express Russell Square (Apparently, my smear campaign against this wretched place really took off! When my friends visited London this summer, they were soooo excited to see this place in person.)
The Skinniest Woman Alive (Yes, that’s me! This actually refers to an old post that, when I switched over to WordPress, got accidentally deleted along with several others. Oops.)
Most Insane Moments: These would have to be the posts surrounding my move from London, which exposed the way in which I handle stress (not well) and my extreme emotional vulnerability after a very difficult few months. I wish I could erase these posts…I want to, but that’s cheating.
Favorite Headline: The Blair Ditch Project
Favorite Photo: Tulips.
One of My Favorite Posts: My write-up on Postman’s Park and the accompanying video. Several people have told me they visited Postman’s Park as a result of this post, which makes me very happy. It’s a gem of a place and one of my favorite spots in London.
I could go on, but I won’t. Time to wrap up this birthday and start year two. [Heaven help me.] I have no idea whether I’ll be doing this next year at this time. Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell.
Big hug to all of you who bother to read this thing, who make comments and link here! xoxo
17 September, 2006 | Comments
I am up late trying to finish a project. The downstairs neighbors appear to be throwing things out the window — furniture, glass. It’s all hitting the ground outside with an awful commotion. A while ago I could have sworn I heard a gunshot, but it must’ve been something else. Let’s hope. I know you must think I’m making this up, but I’m not. There are no raised voices, just loud crashing sounds. I could peek out the window, but I’d rather not. And in about seven hours, the demonic toddler downstairs will start screaming and the guy with the hip hop will start his racket, even on Sunday morning. I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep between now and my wake-up call? Perhaps periodically, but not very well.
16 September, 2006 | Comments
Madrid Fashion Show Bans 5 Thin Models
Apparently, the models in Madrid’s fashion shows must now submit to an examination to assess whether they are at a healthy enough weight. Five were banned because their body mass index falls below what is considered healthy by the World Health Organization. Only five of them? Hmmm. The British government has expressed interest in having a similar rule for fashion shows in London.
16 September, 2006 | 2 Comments
I’ve been feeling a bit poorly today, no doubt because I’ve been eating things I shouldn’t (usually inadvertently, sometimes on purpose). The fact that I’ve been here for two weeks and have just now gotten sick is a good sign — it means I did a good job studying up on food vocabulary before I got here. Reading food labels in English isn’t easy and it’s extremely difficult in a foreign language. I’ll probably be sick a lot more than normal over the next year or so and I’ll just have to get used to it. A little mild nausea and stomach pain never killed anyone. Maybe.
When I’m like this, what makes me feel better is to eat starchy food like white bread. So I had the perfect excuse to buy a baguette today — for medicinal purposes. I always feel odd buying one of those long skinny baguettes just for one person, so today I bought two small ones. When you place them end to end, they equal the length of a long one. Oh well.
I’ve spent a lot of time curled up on the sofa today. It’s rainy and dreary outside, so I’d probably just hang out at home anyway. Plus my feet still ache from the Louvre yesterday. For the past few weeks I’ve been attempting to read Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty.” I have tried to read Zadie Smith before and failed. The only reason I decided to try “On Beauty” is because it takes place in Massachusetts, in a town that’s probably Cambridge but is called something else. When I was working at Harvard, Smith was a fellow at Radcliffe and I used to see her around sometimes. Apparently she was researching this book. So anyway, I wanted to read her fictionalization of life in Mass, but I think I’ve had enough. I realize to some people it’s sacrilege to start a book and then not finish it, but I do this all the time. There are too many books I need to read. Reading a book is like having a long conversation with someone. You don’t give someone your undivided time and attention unless you think it’ll be worthwhile in the end.
15 September, 2006 | 2 Comments
I walked to the Louvre today (don’t you just hate me?). I plan to save most of my museum-going for the cold, dark winter months. Right now there are plenty of other things to take advantage of while there are still leaves on the trees and flowers in bloom and nice weather. But today it was overcast and gloomy (last night we had a scary thunder and lightning storm) and I felt I needed — not wanted, needed — a strong shot of culture straight up. So off to the Louvre I went.
I went without my camera because sometimes you just need to see the sights with your own eyes, rather than through a lens. It’s easy to forget that the Louvre was originally a palace. As I walked into one of the immense courtyards from the rue de Rivoli, I was astonished by the majesty of it. I had to stop walking and take a moment to behold what was in front of me. It was amazing.
Inside, the Louvre is quite the carnival of humanity. It’s a lot to take, what with the hordes of people, the noise level that makes it impossible to lose yourself in the art, etc. If you take away all the exhibits and the palace, it’s like being in a big surburban shopping mall — only worse. But you just have to embrace it as part of the experience. Otherwise, you’ll be in tears or passed out on a bench, practically in a coma. A woman walked up to me and whined (in English) “I’m. So. Tired.”
I went without a plan and though it was difficult to resist, I skipped renting The Da Vinci Code audio tour narrated by Jean Reno. I wandered into the Sully Wing first, which houses the pillaged Egyptian antiquities. I managed to get trapped here for well over an hour, unable to find the exit, circling the same creepy tombs over and over again. I didn’t enjoy this too much. It’s very humid in the Louvre (humid enough to make you sweat). All those bodies crammed into such a small space. Oy vey.
After finally managing to escape, I visited the café to buy bottled water. I felt as if I’d been walking through the desert. Rather cleverly, there are no drinking fountains anywhere. And then I needed a snack (of course) but they didn’t have anything Anglofille-friendly, so I bought a buttery French pastry and just ate it. Sometimes I like to shake things up and live on the edge.
Next it was the Denon Wing, home to La Jaconde or “Monna Lisa.” The Mona Lisa is much, much smaller than I remembered. If you’re not very tall, you may not even get to see it, such is the swarm of people mobbed in front of it. It’s really survival of the fittest — or tallest. After paying the obligatory homage to Mona Lisa, I looked all over the Italian wing for my favorite Louvre painting, “Lady MacBeth Sleepwalking” by Henry Fuseli. I looked everywhere and could not find it, so I asked one of the museum staffers. I was told that Fuseli was actually Swiss, not Italian, but he spent most of his career in England so his work is displayed with the English paintings. I asked where I could find these and was told that the English paintings have been taken off display! They’ve been displaced by something or other (it was a half-French, half-English conversation and a bit difficult to follow, though “Venus de Milo” entered into the equation somehow). The English paintings are in limbo and may just be dispersed throughout the museum. Pshaw! Then she told me if I wanted to see the Fuseli work, I should just look at it on the internet. Uh, if I wanted to look at the paintings on the internet I would’ve stayed home and saved 8,50€.
So that was my Louvre adventure for the day. It’s not a good idea to stay there — or at any museum — for too long. Otherwise, you’re overtaken by that weird museum zombie effect wherein you find yourself looking at a world-famous Ingres painting but your level of engagement is more akin to shopping for towels at the local department store — you feel nothing except the ache in your feet. When you start to feel like that, you know it’s time to look for the exit.
Link: Louvre painting database.
Tags: Louvre, Mona Lisa, La Jaconde, Henry Fuseli
14 September, 2006 | 1 Comment
I was starting to think I didn’t need TV in my life. It gave me a feeling of moral superiority. Over the past year, I have reduced my TV consumption significantly, probably because I was living in London with no cable and only 4 channels that didn’t necessarily get good reception (forget Channel 5!). I did, however, watch DVDs all the time.
Now that I’m in Paris, I don’t really watch TV much because it’s all in French (surprise!). The novelty of watching Will & Grace speak French wears off rather quickly, though it is a good way to practice my listening skills. I’ve seen each episode so many times I know many of the lines. (Sad, yes, I know.) I don’t have any DVDs to watch because I still haven’t arranged to have my stuff from London delivered. There are a few rental places in the neighborhood and the nice thing about DVDs is that you can choose the language, but I haven’t managed to get a membership at one of these places yet. So I have no entertainment available to me in my apartment aside from reading, music and the internet. And you know, I’m starting to get a bit jittery, being alone with my thoughts whenever I’m home, not having anything to mindlessly distract me. So I guess I cannot proclaim that I am capable of a TV-free existence, although living here will obviously wean me off TV even more.
Right now I’m watching Lethal Weapon — in French, of course. I’m desperate, okay, but Mel Gibson was quite handsome in those days and not yet insane. It could be worse.
13 September, 2006 | 2 Comments
I went out for a walk tonight, around dusk. I had been sequestered in my apartment all day, buried under deadlines. (I do have to make a living, you know. I’m not on holiday!) I decided to go for my walk without a map because I know my way around the neighborhood. Ha! I ended up getting completely lost and then suddenly it was dark, which made things worse. While I was lost, I managed to find the square where the scary neighborhood drunks hang out. They of course approached me as a group, making the international symbol for “please buy me alcohol” (i.e. drinking out of an imaginary bottle of Jack). Even drunken lunatics can tell I’m a foreigner. Goddamn.
Sometimes being lost has its advantages. I stumbled upon the bustling Boulevard St. Denis, which I will have to explore in the daylight hours. The city looks so different at night, lit up by the neon café lights, lending it a festive air. I passed café after café filled with people, talking with one another, laughing, perhaps arguing. It reminded me, of course, that I only [slightly] know two people in a city of millions — not that I’ve made virtually any effort to meet anyone. These café scenes made me realize that I don’t want to make new friends, not really. I want my friends and family to be here, not separated from me by an ocean. I want to be around those people who can tell, just by looking at me or hearing the tone of my voice, how I’m feeling. People who can tell me to shut the hell up, people who after not seeing me for a long period of time will hug me so tight that I can feel their heart beating. People like that should never be taken for granted. Not ever. It’s that kind of familiarity that I want, that I crave, but in this life I’ve chosen I cannot have that. It’s not possible to have that in this city, not for me, not now or anytime soon. And that’s part of why moving has been difficult — the longing for that, for what I’ve given up for the second time in one year. There’s an inevitable period of grief before it’s possible to move on.
When something is lost, something is gained. That’s the way life should work, even if it always doesn’t. You probably don’t know this about me, but dusk, twilight, the gloaming, whatever you want to call it — it’s my least favorite part of the day, always has been. The transition from day to night makes me feel somewhat uneasy, some days more than others (especially in winter). But Paris may be able to cure me of this problem. As I walked around the city at twilight, I made a point to look up above the storefronts to see the architecture of the buildings, apartment blocks mostly, one after another down the long avenues. The sun was slowly dimming, washing the creamy stone in soft light, hitting the black iron balconies, the tall windows, the flower boxes. I can’t possibly paint this picture for you in words, but it was stunning and dreamy and ethereal. And almost everywhere in my neighborhood and in central Paris looks like this. After being here only a week and a half, I feel I can safely state that it will take a writer better than I to describe the beauty of this city. Perhaps this is why Paris has attracted so many writers — it reminds us of our limitations, the limitations of what we love so much: words. It keeps us humble, for how could it not. There’s no place like this in the world.
As I walked and thought, I couldn’t help but feel that I don’t deserve to be living here. It may be horrible for me to admit this, but that’s how I feel. I don’t deserve to live in this place, I just don’t. Why me? But since I’m here, I’ll make the most of it. To do otherwise would be unforgivable.
[You may be wondering how I can turn a casual evening stroll into such a melancholy experience. I don't know, it's a gift.]
13 September, 2006 | 8 Comments
What should be one of the most thrilling moments of my adult life has turned into nothing but terror.
For the first time since I’ve lived on my own, I have a washer-dryer. It’s a miracle! I couldn’t be happier if I won the lottery. This wondrous machine is crammed into the kitchen, in the space where an oven should be. I have no oven, but I have to be honest and admit I’d rather have the washer. I can’t tell you how much I hate going to laundromats. The thought that I am now free from having to collect coins and compete for the best machines and take other people’s smelly clothes out of the washer (yes, I’m one of those people who does that sort of thing) fills my heart with joy. I am a real official grown-up now and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live in an apartment that doesn’t have one of these things again.
But.
I have a combo washer-dryer that I have no clue how to use. Not a washer-dryer that is stacked one on top of the other — no. A washer and dryer combined into one unit. It looks absolutely terrifying. The instruction manual is written completely in French, which is unfortunate, because even instruction manuals written in English are hard to understand. And this rather annoys me because every time I buy something that comes with instructions, the manual is 1,000 pages long so it can include every language on earth, including Hopi. And now when I could actually appreciate a manual like that — nothing!
I have been putting off even touching this washer-dryer thingy. But today I am down to my last pair of you-know-what, so I have no choice. (I guess I could wimp out and go to the laundromat. Never!) I’m inching closer and closer. I bought detergent yesterday and I am attempting to read the instruction manual, but I’m scared! I’m scared it’s going to destroy my clothes or flood the whole building (those fears listed in order of importance). If anyone has ever used one of these things, please give me some advice. S’il vous plait.
12 September, 2006 | 3 Comments
In a rather swift follow-up to my previous post, I went out again today in search of lunch. After visiting a few shops, I managed to find a place selling tuna baguettes (and at least 5 varieties of ham sandwiches, of course). I got there before noon and I think this might be the trick to scoring something besides ham. I bought my sandwich and was shocked to discover the massive girth. Behold:
I was expecting one of those flimsy baguette sandwiches they sell in the London train stations. Not even close. And this baby is loaded with fat, with lots of mayo and sliced hard-boiled eggs in addition to the tuna, tomatoes, lettuce and half-pound of bread. I will never make fun of American portion sizes again.
I’m pleased to report that I ate the whole thing rather quickly and now I’m wondering if perhaps this isn’t meant for two people? I doubt it, because I see people eating them while walking down the street whenever I go out around lunchtime. I could excuse my gluttony by telling you that I didn’t have dinner last night or breakfast this morning (which is true) but I hate when women feel the need to justify what they eat (so why did I just do it)? It’s a disgraceful habit. The sandwich was heavenly — as if there were ever any doubt. Like most food in France (as I’ve come to discover now and on previous trips), it tastes better than food found anywhere else on earth. It honestly does.
12 September, 2006 | 3 Comments
Scrumptious-looking baguette sandwiches are sold on practically every block here, but if you don’t eat ham, well, good luck. There are shops that sell several varieties of sandwiches, but most of the ones I’ve visited only serve some sort of ham and cheese. And sometimes what may look like turkey or chicken is actually a pale variety of ham. Surprise! Apparently the French love ham. Not that I blame them. I used to love ham. It’s one of the few meaty things I gave up that I really crave sometimes. So seeing it all over the place is a bit torturous.
I went into one café yesterday in search of lunch. They had a giant stack of ham baguettes in their glass case. I asked them if they had any sandwiches without ham and was told that yes, they also had sandwiches with beef. Sigh. I said I couldn’t eat ham or beef and the guy grunted “Végétarienne!” and motioned with his hand towards the street. I’m not sure if there was a vegetarian sandwich shop over there or if perhaps the mere thought of a vegetarian (which I’m not) so disgusted him that he wanted me to get run over by a car. Either way I said “Au revoir, monsieur,” and quickly left. And then I went to the supermarket and purchased a ready-made “poulet roti” sandwich which consisted of diced chicken and pickles with mayonnaise on regular boring old sandwich bread.
12 September, 2006 | Comments
Ever since I’ve been living here in Paris, I’ve been dismayed that a couple of my neighbors seem to have a penchant for playing loud music late at night and, rather strangely, very early in the morning (which is perhaps just “later that night” to them). When I write that it’s loud, it’s not like I can hear it off in the distance through my walls. No. It sounds like I have my own stereo blasting, with the volume dial turned to “ear splitting.”
I was surprised at this, because this is a large building with residents from all walks of life (i.e. babies, old people) and it was hard to believe the residents wouldn’t complain about something that is so intrusive. But it kept happening, so I assumed that it must be an aspect of Parisian life I didn’t understand and would have to learn to live with it.
Apparently not. Yesterday when I went out, there were lengthy notices taped all over. I couldn’t understand them in their entirety, but I picked out key phrases, such as “attention all residents,” “loud,” “music,” “after 11:00 p.m. and before 8:00 a.m.” and most importantly, “la police.” So I guess I’m not becoming a crotchety old woman before my time. Whew.
11 September, 2006 | 1 Comment
The director of the graduate creative writing program of which I am an alumna frequently sends e-mails to all of us former students. Today, to inspire us as we pursue our art, he sent a link to a video on YouTube of a young Korean man playing Pachelbel’s Canon on an electric guitar. It’s a truly virtuoso performance and a stunning piece of music. Just had to pass it along.
[Apparently this YouTube guy is quite the internet phenomenon -- the NYT just wrote something about him.]
