From the top: A stuffed, but still very attractive, bookshelf from the tiny apartment; a gorgeous snapshot of young Francoise; the view from the guest bedroom; me playing piano in the living room.
I spent my first few days in Paris staying with a distantly related aunt and uncle in a suburb in southwestern Paris. There apartment was extremely compact and extremely French, with a half size washing machine crammed in the kitchen as the only available counterspace and a clothesline hanging over the bathtub. It was about a 20 minute hop by train into Paris proper and only about 15 minutes from the glittering palace at Versaille. It was a wonderful jumping off point for my trip. Francoise and chattered in a wonderful, amorphous French/English language, switching fluidly between the two languages. She was patient with my rusty French.
*Men in slacks, ties and sportcoats riding motorcycles *Old women carrying shopping bags filled with silk scarves *Apartment doors that lock and unlock with skeleton keys *Adorable French children who are never loud and obnoxious (6-year old Clara was quietly doing Sudoku puzzles on her Dads iPhone at dinner last night) *Crispy tomatoes and tender avocadoes drizzled in olive oil and vinegar for dinner *Having Morrocan red wine with my couscous last night at dinner at Luna-Ressa
p.s. I'm finally starting to get the hang of this French keyboard. I type incredibly slow on it, though.
Today I woke up really late (around 11:00 instead of 5:00, so ha! take that jet lag). I actually ended up playing piano for almost two hours, practicing "Avril 14th" from Sofia Coppolla's "Marie Antoinette" (below), before I actually drank my coffee and got myself to the bustop. Since I'm saving all the expensive museums and monuments for the month of July (when I have a student museum pass) I decided to head up to the 18th arondissment to visit Sacre Couer (which is free) and the A.P.C. outlet.
Since the 18th arrondisment is on the exact opposite side of Paris from my uncle's apartment, it took at least an hour by bus and Metro to get to the Sacre Couer stop, right next to the Red Light district (Roxanne, anyone?). Two reasons why it was probably not the best choice for my first day. (Since my uncle's Meudon la Forét apartment is just outside Paris city limits, today marked my first real adventure in Paris.) The streets, packed with overflowing shops sellng knock-offs and espadrilles reminded me a lot of San Fracisco's China Town. I was trying to cross the street in the general direction of the boutique and Sacre Couer. A young man started calling "Madmoiselle! Madoiselle!" behind me. I tried to duck down the street but he followed me. Moving cars blocked the crosswalk, so I couldn't slink away. He caught up to me and spoke quickly in French. I had no idea what he was saying, only that I didn't want him to touch me or my purse.
"Non."
He looked confused. I guess "non" didn't fit the context.
"You speak English?" he asked.
"Oui."
"You are very pretty," he told me.
"Merci." I didn't know what to do. It takes a measure of wit and quick-thinking to avoid unsolicited attention even in English. I didn't know how to even begin in French. He asked if I had a boyfriend (I lied and said yes), asked how old I was (he said he was 22) and if I was American.
When I said I was from California, he pumped a fist in the air. "Barack Obama!" I had to smile and agree.
He said he didn't know the store I was looking for, but pointed me in the direction of the church. Hundreds of warnings about the danger of accepting directions from strangers with unknown motives thundered through my head (paranoid, yes, but then, I was all alone). And then, he decided he would walk me to the boutique himself.
Not sure what else to do, I followed him apprehensively. He told me he was Arabian, that his English was very bad and that he was visiting New York and Las Vegas on his upcoming vacation. I told him I had had never been to Las Vegas, that I loved New York, and prayed that I wasn't being led into some sort of pre-arranged crime scene.
His English was just about as bad as my French. He kept asking me questions about an "epicerie"(a grocery store). I thought he was asking me to lunch. I said "Non, merci." He looked even more confused.
Three times he stopped other people (always other Arabs) and asked if they spoke English. They tried to translate for us. I realized my mispronunciation of the "A" in "A.P.C." made the garbled word sound more like "epicerie." So he wasn't asking me to get luch with him. I was slightly relieved, but still concerned I was being led away to a human trafficking ring.
And then, as my panic reached its height, I started to recognize street names from my map. The little outlet was on a tiny, intimidating alleyway. But it was "Rue Andre del Sarte," the street I was looking for. I started to cool down just a little. My palms got a little less sweaty. He walked me into the shop and spoke quickly in French with the two, hip teenage guys working in the shop.
"You speak English?" Employee 1 confirmed.
My guide bid me "au revoir" and returned to the street, my care having been handed over to the two A.P.C. employees. It seemed luck was on my side today. They helped me find a dressing room and consulted on the shirts I was trying.
"Good choice," said Employee 2 when settled on a loose, white tunic.
Employee 1 rang me up, adding 10% to the already half-price shirt.
"Mon français est terrible," I said, embarrassed.
"Non. C'est super," they assured me. "Do you know how to get back?"
My aunt called me a few days ago to coach me in what she and her college study abroad friends called the "French Bitch Stare." Its kind of a combination of looking unapproachable and looking right through someone...
Kim (my former Betty's Girl employer who traveled extensively as a marketing executive when she was younger) told me that if I ever get hopelessly lost, to look for a McDonald's. "There's always a McDonald's. And there will always be someone who speaks English at a McDonald's."
Outback, Bella and I are going down to the misty city for an Au Revoir Simone concert. I'm planning on dancing my little heart out. In the meantime, here's my favorite Internet bits and baubles for this week...
I can't get enough of Ellie Lawson's new album, "Lost Songs."
As much as I love the idea of love, I am about as romantic as lab rat. No, I'm not a cynic. I just prefer spontaneity to stability and diamonds. And of course, I like to be a "little a crossed in love now and then."
Which means I've probably spent close to zero hours daydreaming about my wedding day. But this pretty J. Crew wedding dress has me fantasizing about floral arrangements and bridesmaids dresses... Just a little bit.
On any given day, Paris is the most visited city in the world. Over 16,000 people stop to gawk upward at the Eiffel Tower. Students pour in from all over the world to study the language, the art, and the history (the je ne sais quoi).
And everyone is hoping to fall in love. Even the ones who don’t want to admit it. And that is a humbling thought for a single, idealistic 19-year old.
Mandy Moore’s singles aren’t doing her any favors.
Her attempts to break out of her pigeon-holed status as a bottle blonde, bubblegum pop singer (and her musical success at doing so on “Coverage,” “Wild Hope,” and now “Amanda Leigh”) are repeatedly undercut by boring singles that are a poor reflection of her mature style. More simply, Moore’s latest singles are everything audiences expect from her. Bad news for a musician trying to prove she is more than she seems.
Like “Extraordinary” from “Wild Hope,” “I Could Break Your Heart Any Day of the Week” is as early-Mandy as they come. The song is about as fresh as beef jerky, lyrically repetitive, structurally boring and tongue-in-cheek but insincere (an occupational hazard for a co-written song).
But despite the weak single, Moore’s latest record is not to be discounted. She has built on the earthy, melancholy style established on “Wild Hope” to great success. The distinctly bluesy “Amanda Leigh” benefits from an increasingly raw, vintage-sounding production that allows Moore’s crisp, controlled vocals full spotlight.
The vocal-driven “Ferndell” supports Moore with energetic finger picking and bold piano. And “Song About Home” is a sparkling, fragile throwback to Joni Mitchell.
The album’s weak points come when Moore tries to “play it safe,” regressing towards her pop roots. This is most evident on “Pocket Philosopher” and the afore-mentioned disaster of a single. The thickly produced “Love to Love Me Back” threatens to disappear in this direction as well, but is saved by guitar work that introduces a folk/country element to the more traditional pop structure.
While “Wild Hope” benefited from Moore’s incredibly personal focus, as a break-up album and story of self-discovery, “Amanda Leigh” turns Moore’s gaze on the world around her, for an album that is poetically aware of the natural world.
“Beneath the water frozen/ The Merrimack River is flowing/ Thunder rolling over/ Don’t say you’re not amazed when you know you are/ And don’t say you’re not afraid when you know you are,” sings Moore on the album’s opening track, “Merrimack River.”
Gracefully unprocessed, lyrically scenic, and incredibly delicate, “Merrimack River” is everything the single is not, everything Mandy Moore wants to be known as, and everything “Amanda Leigh” is.
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From the top: A stuffed, but still very attractive, bookshelf from the tiny apartment; a gorgeous snapshot of young Francoise; the view from the guest bedroom; me playing piano in the living room.
