So I guess I should say Happy Halloween. Sadly, Halloween isn’t much of a presence here. On the plus side, tomorrow is All Saints’ Day, a national holiday. So no classes for me! Tomorrow people remember the dead and visit the graves of relatives. I plan to use the day off to catch up on my studies, but I’ll most certainly take a few moments to remember those I’ve loved and lost.
I took this photo on Saturday night at the Canal St. Martin. Now you know what I do on Saturday nights — I hang out at the local canal with all the drunks and stoners. (Incidentally, I took this photo in the same spot where I took my other photo that I thought kinda looked like an Impressionist painting.)
In person, the canal was very dark — so dark that I could barely see what I was shooting. The lamps you see gave off very little light and the trees’ reflections in the water were nothing but dark shadows. I decided to take a photo just for fun and when I looked at the image in my camera, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like a whole secret world had suddenly been revealed. With the naked eye, this landscape looked nothing like what you see in the photo. I have no idea how the flash on my little camera illuminated this scene in such a way. It was so very dark that it was almost impossible to get a photo that was not blurry. This photo is a bit blurry if you look at it closely (and at a larger size). But at least I got one semi-decent shot of this hidden Parisian scene. Like so many other places in this city, if you take the time to stop and look beyond what is immediately visible, you are rewarded with something special and secret, a gift to you from Paris.
[tags]Canal St. Martin[/tags]
Oh, what lovely news.
“Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur.”
I was back in class today. We had an exam! I didn’t know about it since I was out sick for part of last week, but two classmates helped me cram before class started and I think I did okay. It was on the imparfait — one of the easier verb tenses. I walked home after class. Here are a few photos I took along the way:
A lovely flower shop on the rue Rambuteau:
Marshmallows (les guimauves) in the window of Pain de Sucre on the rue Rambuteau:
The treat I bought for myself at Pain de Sucre! Two “petits macarons” and a strawberry and rose-flavored marshmallow:
[tags]Paris, Pain de Sucre[/tags]
Why did I do seven blog posts this weekend? I think that’s a record. I forced myself to stay home yesterday to study. Clearly, between blogging and e-mail and IM, I got a lot done. Demon computer. Bright shiny box from hell.
Okay, I’m going to take a break from writing posts about my “unnamed personal issues” and the spirits of dead relatives that visit me in the night. First, it’s not my intention to be a tease. There are a lot of things I can’t write about here in an explicit way, so some of my posts are vague on the details. For example, my job takes up a big part of my life but I can’t write about that at all, not even to say in general terms what it is I do for a living. Too risky. And secondly, I’ve written about some very personal things recently and that’s having an effect on my life in ways I don’t need right now. My friends and family read this blog. No, really? (Sigh.)
My life really isn’t that interesting, except for the living in Paris part, so you’re not missing much.
Note to self: Buy a journal.
I feel so lonely in my boycott of Google. They blow. My Google boycott makes me an outcast. Sniffle. And now that they have bought YouTube, I must find another site for my videos. Next they’ll probably buy France and then I’ll have to move.
Link: Amnesty International “Call to Bloggers.”
I’m not really following American news right now, so I didn’t know about this Michael J. Fox vs. Rush Limbaugh story until I saw the video on YouTube. I was quite shocked to see Michael J. Fox in this video. When I was a teen, he was a heartthrob for so many girls my age. Very sad. And Rush Limbaugh is a disgraceful pig, but then there’s really no need to point that out.
I’ve had a sucky few days. My cold came back with a vengeance, though perhaps it’s going now for good. A recurring health problem I have decided to make an appearance, leaving me curled up in a ball with atrocious stomach pain. And I have a few stressful issues I’m dealing with, like we all have at any given time. Given that I’ve just re-emerged from a very difficult time in my life, I’m still in a delicate place. I’m figuring out how to handle problems in an empowering way, rather than letting little things overwhelm me. It’s all been a bit much for me this week, I’m not going to lie to you.
I wrote recently that I needed a hug, because sometimes you just need that. I need a hug from someone I’m close to, not someone I’ve just met here. And of course, there’s no chance of me getting that now or in the near (or even distant) future. But last night I had a dream, a dream about an issue that’s been bothering me. I’m a great believer in the power of dreams. They are a window into our subconscious, to be sure, but I think we can also receive important messages in our dreams if we are open to that.
In my dream last night, this one particular issue (one of many) was resolved in the way I wish it to be. And there in the dream was my grandfather, just hanging out. He had no reason to be involved in this issue, but he was there and he made sure I saw him watching out for me. My grandfather died in 1998 and I was extremely close to him. Sometimes when I’m going through a hard time and I need to be comforted, he appears to me in my dreams. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I pay attention. And last night he was there. I felt his presence and the warmth I always felt when he was alive and we were together. In the dream last night I could feel his love for me and his concern. I’m living far away in Paris and he’s looking out for me, I know that now. It was better than any hug I could have received.
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my friend described someone as a “sweet wanker.”
I like it.
I have to fill out my absentee ballot from Massachusetts and mail it off fairly soon. I didn’t think I was even eligible to vote, given that I have no U.S. residence. But I went to an expat fair recently and Democrats Abroad had a booth and they said I can use my last address for voting purposes. The guy who helped me request the ballot still uses his old address from 1952! So I guess I get to vote as a Waltham resident until I return to the US — if I ever do. I miss Waltham. Hello Bacon Street! I miss our local Dunkin’ Donuts where all the scary bikers hung out. (Actually, I would kill someone for an onion bagel right now.) And I really miss my next-door neighbors, who ran a meth lab and one winter night their house caught fire quite spectacularly, with flames shooting out of the roof. They were left homeless after this, poor homeless drug dealers. Gee, those were some good times.
So looking at the ballot, I’m quite disappointed Mitt Romney is not running for governor, as it’s always fun to vote against that dumbass. Ballot Question #1 is interesting: Should food stores be allowed to sell wine? Uh, I couldn’t possibly care less about anything in my life. Actually, the first Mass. town I lived in was Arlington, which is a completely dry town. Yes, Puritanism is alive and well in New England. You’d drive across the town line into Cambridge or Lexington and there’d be all the liquor stores. Gee, those were some good times.
So the real dilemma is what to do about the senate race. I will not vote for Ted Kennedy. I refuse. And there’s only the Republican running against him and I’m not voting for him. No independent? No Green candidate? How disappointing. I have no idea if this is a close race — I doubt it. But even if my vote for Ted Kennedy would make the difference between that seat going Democrat or not, I don’t care. I can’t in good conscience vote for that man. I’d rather not ever vote for a member of the Kennedy family at all, since I think the whole lot of them need to vanish from public life. Forever. But I will most certainly not vote for a user and abuser of women who drove a young woman off a bridge and instead of seeking help, left her there to die alone. Does a man like this deserve to be Senator? No he does not.
So my only option is to write in a candidate. I have an idea of someone I might write in on my ballot, but if anyone knows of a Massachusetts resident who deserves my vote for Senator, please let me know. I’m open to suggestions. And no, I don’t think David Ortiz is eligible, but it’s worth looking into. [Oh come on, I'm entitled to one Red Sox joke!]
[tags]Ted Kennedy, David Ortiz, U.S. Senate[/tags]
Not even in Paris, not even at the end of my flipping street. I was already having a not-too-good day, thank you very much. Didn’t need this.
*Is “The Place” Denver, Colorado? No, it is not. [Awww, doesn't this bring back memories of my trip home this summer? Life is different now in so many ways.]
P.S. The new backpack is working out quite well. No more back/neck/shoulder pain! I feel like a dork though, even if my new backpack is très chic.
I have to buy a new coat.
The coat I bought one year ago on Oxford Street in London doesn’t fit anymore. It’s swimming on me.
This makes me happy, but not for the reason you’re thinking.
If you’ve ever been to Paris, then you probably noticed rather quickly that this city has a very overt police presence. The police in Paris are very militaristic in appearance; they often look as if they’re ready for urban warfare. Even members of the military can be seen patrolling famous monuments and train stations while carrying machine guns. The first few times you see this it’s a bit jarring.
It’s not uncommon to see swarms of police on the streets. I’ve witnessed this on numerous occasions, most recently last Saturday in the Place de la Bastille. On every occasion, I’ve asked an onlooker what was happening, assuming there was some sort of disturbance. But my questions are always shrugged off and I’m told it’s simply a “manifestation” (a demonstration). In the Place de la République, near where I live, there are many of these “manifestations.” I’ve seen the streets lined with police vans (one time there were at least 25 of them) and they’re filled with police. Sometimes they just sit in the vans, eating take-away food while holding their guns in their laps. Just from my observations, the police force here appears to be more racially diverse than I would have expected, but overwhelmingly male. Ironically, the nouns police and gendarmerie are both feminine.
You can click below to see a few photos I took during the “manifestation” in the Place de la Bastille. These are among the most viewed photos I’ve uploaded to Flickr, though I have no idea why. I know a few women reading this blog have a “hot cop” fetish, but that is not me. As a feminist, I do not find authoritarianism and machismo to be sexually alluring. Yes, I do have a file on my hard-drive called Photos/Paris/Cops, but that is just for sociological purposes.
This is the view from my apartment window as of two minutes ago:
Freaky.
This past weekend I visited the caged bird market, which is held every Sunday in the flower market near Notre Dame (called the Marché aux Fleurs et Oiseaux in French). In addition to birds and flowers, they sell all sorts of pets, like rabbits and hamsters and even puppies. It’s a lovely place to spend an hour on Sunday afternoon — if you don’t mind the sight of birds being stuffed into tiny cardboard boxes. If you want to make a sick woman feel happy and appreciated, you can look at my photos here. Otherwise, you can bite me. The choice is yours.
Stayed in bed today, mostly. Half the people in my class are now sick. It’s a chorus of coughing. Yesterday I had to leave my phonetics class twice so I could cough outside in peace. Then I had to listen to my French pronunciation played back on tape (saying derrière une usine over and over again until the teacher was satisfied) and I sounded like I have a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. Then during the break, one of my evil classmates (from Boston!) decided he would blow cigarette smoke right in my face. He said I’m too happy to be in Paris. He thinks Parisians are mean.
So today I decided to skip all that unpleasantness and sniffle at home in my pajamas. I’m eating M&M’s (peanut), the cure for most of life’s ills. Be nice to me, please.
I want my mummy.
I need a hug.
I’m listening to John Denver on my iPod. How did John Denver get into my iPod? We always listened to his music on car trips when I was a little girl. His voice makes me want to cry. Must find something else to listen to now. Damn you, John Denver.
Anglofille is an American living in London, finishing up a novel and a PhD, taking photos, and blogging about expat life, books, feminism and perpetual angst.
