And down we go..Personal much?

I think it's safe to say I'm in a rut. Or a slump. Or whatever. Let me resume:

First of all, I feel like crap. My skin is awful, my hair is greasy, I haven't showered in two days, I feel fat, and I've chewed my nails down to stubs.

IES is worthless. It is a complete and utter waste of my time. I can't remember the last time I even listened to an interesting discussion during one of my mind-breaking, hour-and-a-half-long courses. It's torment. I would rather be at Whitman getting my ass kicked by ridiculous reading schedules and lit papers than here, banging my head against a wall for no reason. The pain is physical; I can feel myself dying as I sit in class and stare at my mocking watch-face as an eternity of suffering passes every minute. I tell myself, "Art history is fun! You like art! You find aesthetics and the artistic movements of the 19th century interesting!" And then I show up at nine A.M. on Monday and Wednesday mornings and fall asleep - that kind of guilty half-sleep where you have to keep pinching yourself, and the teacher is giving you dirty looks anyway, and all you want to do is get out of your desk and lie down on the floor and pass out.

My "Women in Conflicts" class is less painful, because the teacher is interested and occasionally interesting. However, no one speaks French, and listening to that shit for an hour and a half really is pure torture. Perhaps as a function of the language level, no one ever says anything interesting.

And then there's translation. I find it hard to care even slightly about this class, despite the fact that it would probably be the most useful for me if I did. However, it's completely useless as well. All we ever do is translate things - which in theory is fine. However, the only way I ever know whether my translation is correct is when she gives it back to me and I learn that everything is wrong. Seriously, if I just read a goddamned English-French dictionary and a grammar book cover to cover, I could skip an entire semester of torment. I don't know how people know things - I consistently get the worst grades in the class on tests and translations, despite the fact that half the class doesn't fucking speak French. Once again, I'm getting screwed by assholes who know, and play by, the rules; whereas I do shit that I think "sounds right." Well, it's been that way since 7th grade, so I don't see why things should change now.

Basically, I spend 9 hours a week in IES classes wishing I were dead. It is really difficult to explain to people (well, it's easy to explain, but I sound like a prick) that I go to a really good school, and that classes here don't interest me, that the people are unintelligent and unimaginitive, and that my brain has not been this underworked in I don't know how long. Probably ever. Thank god for Rachel and Linzy; if not for them this sea of mouth-breathing heathens would be unbearable.

And then there's my exterior courses. This is where it gets even better.

It is halfway through the semester, and I have been to exactly one of each of my classes at the ICP (Institut Catholique de Paris). I went to one "Epistemology in/of/on History" class, and one "Contemporary Art" class. History was fine; I planned on going back to that. And then it got nice out, so I haven't been in two weeks. Art History was literally the exact same class as my IES art history class. Same paintings, practically the same lecture. I was less than thrilled, and since class is cancelled every other week, I haven't been since. The problem is that I haven't been to the TD either (that's the art history class where you, I don't know, do homework and discuss things, or something). Not one time. I have no idea what's even required of me for the class. This is not a good thing, as another student, Brittany, who is in the same class, told me that three weeks ago when she introduced herself as an American student and whatnot, the TD prof was the opposite of thrilled to learn about her presence. Well, Brittany actually just said she was a huge bitch - to everyone. She had to give an oral presentation last Friday, and the professor wouldn't tell her how. She told me it did not go well.

The problem is that I think I need to, you know, actually do things for these classes if I want to get credit for them. Which, honestly, I don't really care about. It's the IES classes I need the credit from; a sociology class, an art class, and a french class. The situation is likely not a good one. I don't really know how I'm going to explain to the "dean" here that I haven't been to any of my exterior classes. I'm thinking about lying, and blaming my lack of grades on evil French profs.

Well, that's classes.

As far as Paris goes, j'en ai marre. Things go up and down, but mostly I'm sick of the weather, the people, and speaking french. Nothing interests me; I'm bored all the time. I don't know what I'm doing here. Wasting money, probably - I could be working and living here or something, but for some reason I'm in school. The French don't even take school seriously. I don't understand how they turn into human beings; there is chatter throughout every single class, and almost no one shows any interest in anything remotely scholarly. It is the land of the self-motivated; it's not like the teachers give a shit (they tell you as much). And going to the ICP, which is supposed to be better than the Sorbonne, is like being in high school (granted, I've been to two classes, so I'm no expert). I have no interest in going to classes, or doing much of anything else. I wouldn't mind eating really good food all day or something.

What really bums me out is that I have no idea what to even look forward to. The end of the semester? Then what? Back to Walla Walla, to find a job. Definitely not Colorado. Live in a house that I'll rent for a year while I struggle through classes and try to think of things to do with my life. Another semester of English and French? I don't know what to do with either. More school, I suppose. What a thrilling prospect.

I think that everyone, at some point, dreams of dropping out and being a rock star. I'm definitely there right now. Unfortunately, I don't even know how to play the guitar. Which is why I'm going to buy one at a pawn shop this summer, along with a sewing machine. I might as well teach myself some shit.

I wish I could think things into existence. I have all these fucking fantastic ideas for books, comics, operas, movies, songs, and every other thing ever. The thing is, I have no idea how to do anything. I haven't got a single useful skill. What am I supposed to do with a brain that never shuts off, and a body that won't turn on?

Speaking of which, as soon as I get back to the states I'm getting on anti-anxiety meds. There are some days I can barely even function from invisible stress, and I can't remember the last time I relaxed. Even my friends here have noticed it. I'm sure I'm terrible to be around - in an awful mood all the time, constantly bored but unwilling to do anything - I'm a peach. All I really want to do is ride motorcycles, sword fight, fly spaceships and listen to metal. You know, have adventures. Like, if I were a steampunk assassin in a dystopian victorian neo-past and got caught up in some grand, fantastical conspiracy. Or a rough-and-tumble space pilot disovering new planets and saving the universe. Or a knight. Or anything. Back in the 1840's, Baudelaire called for a portrayal of the Heroism of modern life (somehow he ended up with Delacroix, who, while suitably romantic [read: epic], was hardly a portrayor of the vie quotidienne. There's a definite disconnect between Baudelaire's later poetry and his continued championing of Delacroix. I suppose his endorsement of Constantin Guys does something to remedy that, but Guys wasn't all that heroic. But none of that's neither here nor there), and I think that's what I'm looking for. There's no romance in life any more; no heroism, no grandeur. Nietszhe killed god, and the Author was dead by the seventies. What else is left? I know I'm not supposed to complain about the lack of the sacred, but then where do you turn for refuge? I don't know if any of this will ever make any sense to anyone else, but that's alright. There's no mysticism. All the corners of the map have been filled in. There's no excitement. I haven't been excited for anything in ages. I think people mistake excitement for anxiety. Either that, or I have way more problems than I thought I did.

This is why I don't think I should be allowed to read or watch anything, or even listen to music, because inevitably I end up comparing my life to fictions. Like, I couldn't sleep tonight (probably because I slept from ten in the morning to six thirty at night. Now it's six AM, and no signs of crashing), and so I stayed up and thought. That can't be healthy. I'm tempted to reference Baudelaire again, and wander out into the pre-dawn rain looking for the fleurs du mal. I'm always lured by the thought of taking on a second personality that only comes out at night - like Jekyll and Hyde. I want to go out and be evil. Not street-thug evil, more like passively evil - Not helping old ladies, picking up people's dropped items and keeping them for myself, not reporting thefts. You know, being evil in the Silent Observer's capacity.

Maybe I'll go into the sewers and look for the elder gods; try to get involved in the arcane arts and summon a demon. Stumble into a cult meeting and fight off mindless hordes with a manhole cover. Really, I'm up for anything at this point. I play out bizarre daydreams in my head almost constantly ; I zone out on the phone and even in the middle of conversations.

Something else I'd like to mention: I am constantly terrified of/thinking about knife fights and getting stabbed. I think I've mentioned this before. It's not really even a fear, it's more of an expectation. I lie awake in bed and image what I would do if someone attacked me with a knife. When I'm walking around at night, I'm always expecting that someone's going to come at me with a dagger.

On what I hope is a final note, I hate accordions. What I hate even more is when people play them directly in my ears while I'm on the metro, and then want me to give them money. They should be giving me money for putting up with their shit. Seriously, I don't even care if they're the fucking Mozart of the accordion, I can't stand it.

It's Been a While...

...Since I wrote anything.

Kim left this morning (yesterday morning?) at 9:20, so we were out of the hotel at 5:30 AM. The RER was uneventful and the airport was empty, so we had time to "enjoy" the greasiest quiche lorraine either of us had ever eaten before she headed off to her gate.

It was a fun two weeks. Upon arrival, Kim fell in love with the Greek sandwich. And she fell hard. I think we had six in two weeks. That's a lot of greasy meat.

We decided on a favorite: The pita at "Maison de Gyros" in St. Michel hits all the right notes: the spicing on the juicy meetz is delicious, the tzatziki is thick and rich and legit, the salad and tomatoes are generally crisp, and the fries are hotter and more satisfying that the fries of the competitors - although the last pita we ate was quite a bit saltier than usual. The "restaurant" is also comfortingly filthy. There's salt all over the floors so that you don't slip in grease, the upstairs seating area hasn't been cleaned in...ever...and on Thursday we were accompanied by a stray cat AND a deformed pigeon as we ate.

Kim didn't want to see most of the touristy schtick - of course, you end up seeing most of it anyway - just the Eiffel tower and the Sacre Coeur, which were both duly admired - as were the Arenes de Lutece, where we ate - believe it or not - a Greek Sandwich. We spent most of our time rambling about and eating. I forget how much Kim eats; it's terrifying, especially given she's 5'6" and 113. I ate more in the last two weeks than I did the first month I was here, easy. It was good, actually - I never eat anything more gourmet than a panini; so hanging out with Kim was an excuse to eat food that I actually wanted. She discovered the joys of the pre-dinner kir, the three-course meal, and the Confit de Canard - I think she was more upset to leave the Foie Gras than she was to be leaving me.

The first weekend she was here, we headed over to Linzy's to eat dinner with Rachel and Katie. Rachel and Linzy had been in Amiens that day, and had picked up veggies and whatnot - Rachel also bought Bar for us all to eat, and I'm proud to say I didn't fuck it up. I cooked it in a pan with butter, oil, and white wine, then made a wine/garlic/shallot sauce. It tasted really, really good, if I do say so myself. We all had a great time; the only casualty Linzy's white tablecloth, victim of an energetic Kim and an unstable candlestick.

We did make it to La Duree, the macaron house on the Champs Elysees. I can safely say that the Rose Macaron is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten in my entire life. It tastes like love. It is incredible. If everyone ate rose macaroons every day, there would be no war and no hate, the economy would be back on track, and we would have a settlement on Mars. It is that good. I crave more; I fiend after them like a crack addict.

Those are the first things that come to mind. I should have done a better job keeping up with posting, but as Kim was very fond of saying, c'est la vie. I'll probably add more as it comes back to me - a busy two weeks is a lot to fit into a single post.

More Snips

I was under the impression that I spoke pretty good French; that I was past the point of being unable to communicate and well into the land of the annoying but inconsequential grammar mistakes. It turns out that getting your hair cut in a foreign country is really difficult.

I found "Celine for Rachel Benaicht: RB2" on the internet through the bumble&bumble "salon locator" doohickey. Since I know absolutely nothing about salons in Paris, I figured that would be the safest thing to do. Anyway, after I made my appointment (over the phone, which encouraged me) I sat down to look up haircut terminology. I made a great big list, with words like "thinned out," "faded in," "split ends," and "It's too poofy, could you flatten it out?" Of course, as soon as I got on the metro I realized I had forgotten it on my desk. So I showed up at "RB2" with naught but hope.

When I walked in, I was put in my robe and made to sit around uncomfortably for half an hour (they had to move me once or twice to less in-the-way locations) while they finished their current coiffs. Finally, after feeling incredibly out of place for a very long time, my hairdresser walked over and asked me what I wanted. My hair, after two months without a cut and about a week and a half without a wash (I decided not to wash it until I got it cut, as some way of motivating myself to make an appointment or something - I ended up with really nasty hair), was frizzy and ratty and disgusting. Embarassingly so. I tried to stick to terms I knew, but basically everything I said boiled down to these two sentiments: "Shorter, but not too short," and "longer, but not too long." At one point I tried to bring up David Beckham as a reference, but that was unfortunately a bust. I guess he changes his hair too much. Celine, the salon owner, came over to try to translate, but she didn't do any better than I did. "You 'ave a lot of 'air," she finally said, and walked away. Anyway, I just told the girl to start cutting. I did manage to transmit that I wanted my hair thinned out as well as the sort of basic style I was going for - and she definitely came through.

Making small talk during the haircut was much easier than describing the haircut itself. My hairdresser was a very nice, younger French girl in her mid-twenties who was part Cantonese. She asked how much university cost in the States (answer: a lot) and other things of that sort of vapid nature. The salon was uncomfortably silent - no music, and basically no talking. It was fairly odd. I'm used to the Beehive (and to my homie Shelly, who basically just starts cutting as soon as I walk in - ask for her if you're in WW), which is very young and trendy and loud.

All in all, I was at the salon for an hour and a half, which is long even by Beehive standards. I think we were both glad when it was finished, even though I have to give props to the girl -whose name I never learned - she definitely performed admirably for having no direction other than "no, shorter," and "yes, good." It was definitely a humbling experience, and I encourage everyone to try it some time; thankfully now if I ever need a haircut again I don't think it will be quite so traumatic.

Snips and Snails

I seem destined to never be able to wake up for class. I set two alarms every night: one in my phone, and one on my computer that's generally loud enough to wake the entire apartment building, if it goes off.

Today, neither did. I'm sure I'm losing credit in my translation class or something - I've never missed my 9:00AM class, but somehow waking up at 10:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays is incredibly difficult.

Classes have been getting more and more painful. Each class is an hour and a half long - which is only ten minutes longer than the twice-a-week classes at Whitman - but somehow that hour and a half seems to drag on for eternity. I have to restock my gum supplies this weekend - it's sometimes the only thing that keeps be going.

I finally went to my courses at the ICP this week - they're both fine. Epistemology of History meets once a week for an hour - I'm amazed they can get away with giving it a 3-credit status. Art history turned out to be essentially the same art history course that I'm taking at IES - so on Tuesday night we looked at the very same paintings that we had been staring at on Monday morning. Apparently, the teacher is putting together make-up classes on upcoming Saturdays to account for...something. Brittany (the other IES student in the class) and I have decided that we'll be unavailable on Saturdays. The grades they give us at the university (or at IES for that matter) don't actually count towards our GPAs, so essentially we're just trying to get credit for completing them. And the only ones I technically need to complete are my IES courses, which is hardly a problem - so yes, it's turning out to be what amounts to a semester off.

This past week was Fashion Week in Paris, so everyone was out in their most interesting plumage. Linzy somehow made it into the Gareth Pugh show, and hence the Gareth Pugh after-party, which sort of blows my mind a little bit. Anyway, it was sort of amusing to see the metro fill up with models for the weekend - even if they're terrifyingly skinny and sickly-looking. Rachel also just managed to pick up some internship at Vivian Westwood, and Linzy's working at some little dress atelier (along with another internship at a photography studio) - so I feel like I should be doing more with my life. The truth is, though, that I really like just wandering around the back streets. On Tuesday I walked from Hotel de Ville into the Marais, and got myself utterly lost. It was beautiful out, and it was probably the best lost I've ever been. I've also decided that if I ever move here I want to live in the Marais.

Tuesday night (after art history) we all showed up at Linzy's apartment to celebrate her birthday dinner with her host parents. They were a funny little couple; very French and more conservative than I'm used to (more religious, too - the mother kept calling me Gaspard and asking me if I knew what the name was from, among other things), but they made a fine dinner for Linzy, including what had to be some of the best cake I've ever eaten. According to the mother, it was essentially half butter and half chocolate, but hey - that's what birthdays are for, right?

Today I'm off to the Marais again to try to find a salon. My hair is out of control, and I'm getting incredibly sick of it. I just hope that whoever I go to doesn't absolutely ruin me. It would be nice to be incredibly rich and have a traveling stylist, but I suppose that's a dream I'll have to try to fulfill later in life.

Photo Dump

I realized that I have not been so great at sharing photos. Here are several. I apologize in advance for being a shite photographer:


Here is the sandwich I ate this morning. It was huge. And also deliciousAt the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A statue who isn't going anywhere. Linzy and I explored a lot. Rather, trespassed.

Here is a pretty fountain and tree at the Ecole de Beaux Arts
The awesome hallway at the EBA
EBA entrance
Art installation? Hallway graffiti? Really big cards? I like.
Dessert: A chocolate thing and a rasberry thing.
Scallops, foie gras, vinaigrette sauce, asparagus. BAM. It was already mostly gone by the time anyone thought to take pictures. But pictures of food never really look that appetizing, do they?
This is a cat. He is friendly.

Katie devouring a delicious Greek sandwich sometime during our first week here.

Here we have Katie and me looking adorable in aprons. Notice my choice of black and brown; it's the combination du jour here in Paris.

Really Good Chips

I suppose you could say that a lot has happened since that last incredibly moving entry, but mostly I've just been eating chips. They have these roast chicken-flavored chips here that are going to be the death of me. They're so good. I can't stop.

So that's why today I have to go jogging.

Friday I ended up at the gigantic agricultural salon/expo, and it was incredible. It's where all the farmers and food/cheese/meat/wine producers come to show off what they've made/grown/recently slaughtered. You pay six euros to get in, and then you basically just sample food and drink for hours on end. It was pretty great. We walked away with a couple of things - some bottles of this delicious berry/peach spritzer stuff that we figure we'll save for a spring day in a park, and we also got bullied into buying ten euro's worth of tapenade. Tasty stuff, so it's not such a waste really - plus, I think we're going to stuff it into a whole Bar and make a really good fish.

The one thing that I hate most about Paris is dealing with the coins. They're an unbelievable pain in the ass. First of all, everyone at every store expects you to have exact change for everything - something I never have. Then, when someone gives you change, they give you as many coins as possible. Yesterday, I needed 38 euros and 80 cents in change, and I got 8 euro 80 back in coins. What am I supposed to do with these? It's no wonder everyone who comes here is broke, because you walk around with 8 euros in coins and think, "Hey, this [whatever I'm about to buy] is only 2/4/5 euros!! I can just use coins!" And everything's great and easy until you realize you just spent 7 dollars on some thing you found on the street. It's an impressive scheme. So I've entered, as of Saturday, the no-spend zone. I'll see how long I can make it.

Last night, I ran into my host sister, Ann, on the very last metro from Opera. Which isn't really that weird, but the whole time I was waiting for it to come I was thinking, "Man, wouldn't it be weird if I ran into Ann sometime in the middle of the night on the metro?"