Fezzik In Paris

Crack is Bad

Purrito

January 10, 2016

August in Paris has been a cursed month for us for the last two years. The first August we lived here, our key broke in our apartment door three hours before our train to Amsterdam was supposed to leave. In the states, this would not have been a problem, but in Europe, August is the start of the mass exodus of the French for ‘vacances’. We were extremely lucky to find a locksmith at that time, let alone actually make our train, considering the city was practically empty.

This last August brought on the flood. We came home one day to find that there was water pouring out of our ceiling in the bathroom. The man upstairs, who caused the leak, was uncooperative and when we called insurance companies and our rental agents, they all seemed pretty chill about it. We were the only ones that were upset and worried, weirdly, but we think this may have been due to our agent thinking we were over-exaggerating the severity of the situation. When he finally came a few days later and saw that there was water coming out of our door frames in the bedroom, he realized how bad it really was.

Yes, there were posts about both of these incidents on here, but now we are starting to see the actual effects of the damage. The insurance had told us they had to wait several months to come look at the damage because it takes a long time for the cinderblock walls to dry out, etc. Almost six month on, and a rift has formed between our wall and plastered cinder block underneath. It started as a small crack towards the top, turned into an open flap, then proceeded to connect to another crack and completely open the wall. It has become a daily ritual for us to comment on its expansion and shape, talk about the textured wall underneath, and discuss how many layers of paint there are. (The answer is A LOT, this apartment was built in the early 40’s just post WW2).

I wonder how long until the entire wall is undressed.

time is a flat circle: ain’t no party like a gatsby party

geepgeepgeep

no comments

January 1, 2016

From the never-posted archive, because we’ll be there again this year (and sleeping or in the sauna) when this post goes up:

I don’t recall what I was searching for, but I was flipping through the pictures on my phone and ran across those that we took on New Year’s Eve. Further to finding the pictures, I ran across the fairly substantial post that I had written, but never put up due to the weird and subsequently busy nature of the past couple of weeks (that’s terrorists-stole-my-birthday-week and Purrito-is-going-back-to-the-States week for anyone who gives much of a damn). It’s not complete, and for whatever reason, it doesn’t feel right to do so at the moment, but here it is for posterity and the internet and for no fucking reason whatsoever.

…because a gatsby party don’t stop until at least two people are dead and everyone is disillusioned with the jazz age as a whole. [credit]

The end of the first day back at work (it’s still surprising how short a perceived time span two weeks can be) seems like an appropriate time to wistfully (if not a touch melancholically) look back on New Year’s Eve, which was a startling amount of fun.

Like many of our tales, this one begins in Rouen; on our inital visit to Rouen, we ran across the Hotel Bourgtheroulde, which is a 15th century building that has been converted into a five star (per the French rating system) hotel. Next to the menu for the restaurant, we spotted a flyer for a NYE party (réveillon, per the local tongue). Without fail, on a yearly basis, we talk about going to a New Year’s Eve party (I’m not sure if this is a tautological or a form of epistemic closure, so let’s just say that it’s both), and this time, we were in France.

So hey, what the hell, you know?

Aside: I’m minimizing the economic argument here; to stay the night in a room was nearly 80€ less expensive than under normal circumstances, and the entire trip (tickets for the both of us, the adder for champagne and aperos before the main event, tickets to and from Rouen, room and board, the Purrito’s 3€ curry panini, and a box of paracémtaol for the day after) was still less costly than two entries to Musée du quai Branly’s (otherwise known as the museum of random pilfered artifacts from native cultures that I really can’t even pretend to give a shit about) soirée.

This, however, is not merely the tale of a party; this tale entails fish (and fish entail fish tails).

Sucker fish of a species unknown to me but which look remarkably like the non-plecostomus sucker fish that my mother unintentionally killed by over-cleaning the fish tank. (RIP Gollum; I’m raising a glass of Volvic to you right now)

It’s a strange thing for a soap shop to have (unlike Gollum, these fish aren’t exposed to dish soap or chlorine; UV lights are used to sterilize the tanks in between people), but a hell of a way to spend about a hundred Euros (to be fair, we bought donkey soap and some sort of hand lotion as well)

Occasional nip aside (they’re supposed to eat dead skin, but get a touch overzealous here and there), it’s a surprisingly entertaining experience, likely due in no small part to the Purrito’s periodic squirming and the abject weirdness of feeling a fish nibble the cuticle directly under the front of one’s toenail.

The actual party was great; champagne and apéros gave way to a four hour, five course meal that included what is likely the best foie gras that I have had thus far (and naturally, we have no clue as to what kind it was). It being a gatsby-themed fête de réveillon, the majority of the people in attendance were dressed in semi-period-appropriate attire, us included (we even nabbed a compliment from a guy we dubbed The Spaniard, who proclaimed that we were ‘’very roaring twenties”) True to the theme, the entertainment consisted of a trio of showgirls performing songs from Cabaret (I’m deferring to the purrito on this one; I have no clue), the traditional champagne toast at midnight, and finally, a number of what we had thought to be frail older men getting the hell down on the dance floor.

Three weeks later, I really don’t remember the hangover. I do remember the fun.

a crazy handful of nothin’

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 31, 2015

Our cascading failure state continued into Tuesday.

Yet again we erred by failing to confirm that the museums in which we were interested were indeed open; arriving at Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine we were (gently, and in slow, clear, French) lectured about national museums being closed on Tuesdays while city museums are closed on Mondays (both facts of which we’re well aware, but which we’ve mysteriously ignored, owing to the two week interregnum which is rapidly coming to an end. Sigh.) It’s cool, I didn’t really want to see the exhibit on the urban architectural movement as seen in France between 1960 and 1985 (it’s not as if it was the only reason we had hiked over there).

I should note that the guard helpfully suggested that the museum of modern art (located in the vicinity) was open, and that we might like to see it.

Thwarted, we turned to item number two on the list for the day, the Paper Tigers exhibit (at Musée national des arts asiatiques-Guimet). Having just typed it out, it’s evident where this tangent leads, but at the time, we didn’t know the full name of the museum.

Thwarted once more, we made the decision to hop a bus to Orsay, despite knowing that it was probably going to be a mess. Tangent: this means that we walked by the infamous underpass that brought Princess Di and Dodi Fayed’s Mercedes to an abrupt halt nearly 20 years ago (I forgot to take a picture). The entrance to Orsay, as viewed from the Léopold pedestrian bridge, was overrun by tourists (so much for that marked decrease in bookings), so we decided to cut our losses, buy some macarrons, and go the hell home.

At this point, I’m disinclined to elaborate on the foie gras restaurant that we (finally) tried; the lessons learned consisted of a) we really should just go back to Café Constant when we’re in the mood for a nice meal and b) the Purrito can cook one hell of a magret canard.

On the positive side, the colonne at Place Vendome that has been undergoing restoration is now uncovered; I had feared that we wouldn’t see it before we left.

I thus have a picture or two of it, which I suppose is nice.

It’s no longer hidden by scaffolding.

A closer shot, from within Place Vendome.

Close-up of the Napoleon topper.

or not

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 31, 2015

Monday’s failure began on Friday evening.

While we had originally planned an expedition to the Musée des arts forains, I found, while double-checking the website, that while the museum normally had a reservation-free, just-show-up period between Christmas and the new year (throughout most of the year, it’s Monday or Tuesday only, reservations required, subject to sufficient interest…), and while the site had said, a mere week before, that no reservations were required, suddenly, “due to the security situation,” one had to book tickets for specific time slots online.

Needless to say, all of the tickets were sold out.

As we’ve been meaning to go back to Musée d’Orsay, our plan was to head there, wander around for a while, jump up to Île de la cité to buy cat food, head to an umbrella store in which the Purrito had taken an interest, and head back. This modified plan promptly fell apart as we reached Orsay and realized that a) we’re stupid (or at least forgetful) because b) it’s Monday and c) Orsay is among the museums closed on Mondays.

The newly-modified plan for Monday now revolved entirely around Île de la cité; we’d hit Saint-Chappelle, duck into Nôtre-dame de Paris, buy cat food (BHV is just across the river), and pop into an umbrella store. Oh, and grab something to eat at the Purrito’s favorite café in the area.

The abbreviated version proceeds like this:

The line at Saint-Chappelle was of a length we’d never seen (as we avoid the area during high tourist season, they probably get longer, but that’s not of any particular relevance), so we ducked into the conciergie, which had no line.
Unfortunately, it has no line for a reason; I’m willing to give lower-tier, less-sexy places a look as there’s usually something redemptive to be found (see: Musée des égouts, Château de Vincennes, all of Provins). The conciergie… well, there’s some pretty damn nice vaulting to be seen.
Post-lovely-vaulting (seriously, though; it’s pretty great. Oh, and there’s a piece of a marble dinner table from the 14th century), the Purrito said that we were at the now-or-never point for Notre-dame de Paris. I balked at the length of the line, but she was correct; it did indeed move quickly, and within ten minutes we were staring at what I’m fairly sure is the most yawn-worthy cathedral interior I’ve seen (go to Sulpice or Saint-Germain-des-Prés).
At this point, we’re hungry and underwhelmed, so we decide to jettison our plan to visit the umbrella store in favor of getting all of this over with.
Cat food is thus acquired at BHV, and lunch is had at the Purrito’s café.

At least we bought cat food.

I haven’t taken (or posted) a good picture of a buoy in a while.

Vaulting.

Look at those lines.

An art installation.

A chunk of the marble dining table that dates to the building’s palace days.

A mid-tier prison cell (upgrades available, for a price).

The conciergie was a palace from the tenth to the fourteenth century, and a prison thereafter. It gained particular notoriety as the last stop on the way to the guillotine during the Revolution. All of which is only tangentially relevant to this being the view from the women’s courtyard.

The inside of Notre-dam… zzZZzzzzz…

They had tapestries with turkeys and chickens on them, which was nice.

A Christmas display.

Yay animals.

I believe that this is all connected to COP21 (lazily, I didn’t read the sign). It’s in the plaza outside of the Hôtel de ville.

picture dump: château de vincennes

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 30, 2015

We finally made it out to Vincennes this past Saturday.

In news surprising to no one, I took a few pictures.

Louis IX (Saint Louis), who was responsible for turning the hunting lodge into a manor.

The pigeons out here are fat.

What appears to be a working drawbridge.

The 52-metre-high keep.

That moat is deep.

The château’s Sainte-Chapelle, originally erected as a display case for fragments (keep a straight face, keep a straight face…) of the crown of thorns.

Detail of the windows.

The stained glass windows of the Sainte-Chapelle as seen from the inside.

The (garish) memorial to the duc d’Enghien, a royal relation executed in the moat in 1804 for (possibly) aiding Britain.

It’s an altar. Per the sign, one is not supposed to sit on it.

The original bell from the belltower/horloge.

Windows.

A well.

No Timmy.

A view from the first level of the donjon. The wall at the right edge of the frame is the (still-working) belltower, home to a large bell which rung, as bells are wont to do, and scared the shit out of the both of us right after I took this picture.

The actual bell.

Long shadows in the courtyard.

Even keeps need shitters.

Some sexy rib vaulting.

The keep would eventually become a prison used to house high-value enemies of the state. This cell held the Marquis de Sade for seven years.

The interior view of the entrance to the donjon.

Gateception.

…I’ve seen her before.

The marker denotes where the unlucky duc was fusillé.

The back side of the château.

mini picture dump: invalides

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 28, 2015

It’s small and it’s very late (said trip to les Invalides occurred not this past Saturday but the Saturday before), but I feel that remaining steadfastly slothful is the best way of demonstrating my commitment to enjoying my two weeks off.

Picture of the day.

Not quite picture of the day, but undoubtedly a close second.

Prior to this visit, this edifice had been obscured by scaffolding. The restoration seems to have been worth it, though.

The museum has opened its previously-closed les cabinets insolites (“cabinets of curiosities,” more or less), which includes musical instruments.

Snaaaake.

I like the color on this one.

Further curiosities included elaborate artillery models…

…and a room full of tin soldiers.

This doesn’t seem safe.

The dioramas (not the proper term, but I’m drawing a blank at the moment) were pretty neat, too.

Giving Cookies to the French

Purrito

no comments

December 27, 2015

Cookies solve everthing…

Since it was Christmas, a friend of mine came over to help bake an enormous batch of cookies. We made fluffy snickerdoodles, brown-butter chocolate chip cookies, raspberry roll-ups (that ended up looking more like brains, but a little silver powder fixed it), and some of Geep’s favorite peanut butter kiss cookies. The smell of baking cookies, and a little Christmas music, helped add a dash of holiday spirit during the strangely warm winter here. It has been strange to walk outside in a light coat and not die of frostbite, which was the case last year. Damn El Nino.

Anyways, we baked the cookies, sent some to friends, but still had quite a few left over. I even gave some to our gardienne, along with her Christmas bonus and a small card. She was pleased and smiled when I told her, “J’ai fait des biscuits hier pour Noël” (I made cookies yesterday for Christmas.) She was also happy that we have learned enough French to communicate with her on occasion, she even showed me a little English she had learned.

After giving her some of the baked goods, we still had bags full. When Geep decided to finally get a haircut by his favorite stylist, a sweet older french man that is an absolutely artist when it comes to hair, I decided to give him some cookies, too. Geep made concerned faces at me when I suggested this, telling me it’s ‘not a very French thing to do‘. I assured him that I would bring them along and casually ask him if he liked cookies and go from there. Geep proceeded to get coiffed to perfection by Le Monsieur, and we headed to desk to pay. I asked him, as I had promised, very casually if he liked cookies. His whole face lit up like a Tree as he smiled from ear to ear. Bien Sûr! Oui Oui! He about danced from behind the counter as I pulled the sachet of cookies from my bag and told him the flavors inside. He proceeded to hug me and kiss me on both cheeks before we walked out. Geep was astonished by his reaction. ‘I guess the French like cookies. I hope the girls in the salon don’t steal them from him…‘

On the actual day of Christmas, I went across the street to procure a croissant for breakfast and a bûche de Noël from Fred’s before the lines were too crazy. As I left the apartment, a van full of military people were unpacking and heading to guard the church across the street. Thanks to the recent attacks here, they were posting military and gendarmes around churches in case of an attempted attack on Christmas. Many were setting up metal detectors and locking the doors once the mass started. Since they were forced to stand guard in the rainy weather because of a few idiots, I thought it would be nice to share some of the cookies. I came home to drop off the stuff for breakfast and told Geep of my plan. Once again, he was concerned. Granted, walking up to a group of four heavily armed military people with a small sack doesn’t sound like the greatest idea, but I have a small advantage. It may sound terrible, but being a rather pale and very blonde female American, I don’t set off any alarm bells. We were not sure if they could even accept them, but I told Geep the worst they could do was say no. I packed a rather large (clear plastic, for safety sake) bag with cookies and walked across the street practicing my french along the way. I approached the first guy and said hello. After saying my French was bad, he asked if I was better at English. (Woo!) I explained that I saw them outside and wondered if they would like some cookies for later. I told them what they were, in French and in English so the others would understand, and watched them all start smiling. One of the soldiers, a female, was ooo-ing over the raspberry ones, and a man at the end asked about the peanut butter. They thanks me profusely, giggled at the weird american girl, and put the cookies safely in their car for later. When more replacements arrived, we saw them sitting in the car munching and kidding around with each other for their break.

Granted, Geep is correct, that the French don’t really do food gifts unless they are close with the person, but that is what made it more fun. They were not expecting it, so it was surprising and novel. The fact that I handed out cookies to random people made Geep make the comment that I am a much better person than him, but I reminded him it helped me dump a lot of cookies,too. Mutually beneficial.

Cookie love is universal and can cross cultural barriers. Perhaps cakes can end wars.

Merry Christmas!

(Random Small Rant:Do not put off a trip here if you are planning one, by the way, as there are more military and police all over the city than you can imagine. Paris is a safe place that had a bad thing happen, like many places in the US and elsewhere. I encourage people to come and help Paris get back on its feet.)

dumb idea of the week: another marché de nöel

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 23, 2015

Perhaps unsurprisingly, violating our usual rule regarding never going anywhere near the Champs-Élysées proved to be a bad decision; between the crowd (to be expected), the weird carnival (complete with a Thriller haunted house that had been christmasized by draping the zombies in Santa suits) and the massive number of vendors selling exactly the same crap, skipping said marché de nöel would probably have been a better decision.

Worst of all, we went to the closest Léon (mussels are their specialty), which turned out to have a higher price and a lower quality (I may still have sand in my teeth) than the République location we had (very happily) eaten at previously.

We weren’t even afforded the opportunity to laugh at the public broadcasting of vulgar Christmas carol parodies. I’m incredibly disappointed.

Hey, that huge Ferris wheel is still there.

Just to prove that we were at a Christmas market.

…I genuinely have no clue.

more creepy animatronic dinosaurs.

picture dump: marché de nöel

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 19, 2015

The Purrito joined me for lunch in La Défense yesterday, and we were (quite unsurprisingly) distracted by the animals that were present as part of the marché de nöel.

Aside to the market overseers: you may want to have a native or at least advanced Anglophone take a look through your music playlist; this sounds very much like Jingle Bell Rock, but…

This pig was dreaming, thus prompting the question “what exactly does a pig dream about?'”

Chickens and a manic (aren’t they all?) guinea.

Note to our friendsgiving guests: the large white-and-black bird in the center of the frame is a turkey. The black bird with the tail is not a turkey.

It’s a set of mobile foie gras containers.

Randy ponies.

The Purrito’s favorite: fuzzy donkeys.

Zzzzz.

in fog

geepgeepgeep

no comments

December 17, 2015

An hour-and-twenty-two-minutes away from gare de l’Est by the P train, Provins is a tiny (12k residents) enclave perched largely on top of a hill, though the (admittedly scenic) hike from the ville basse to the ville haute strongly emphasizes the height of said hill.

There are four churches, a handsome city gate, a tower with four turrets foothills, and an enclosure with walls and ruined towers, spilled all in the most charming way on two hills bathed until mid coast in the trees. – Victor Hugo

Built around a small medieval core, the city feels like a more-authentic Bruges; this isn’t to cast aspersions at Bruges (It’s a fairytale fucking town, isn’t it?), but it feels like an actual city that people live and work in (there were apartments built into parts of the old fortifications and in what little remained of a church that was mostly demolished more than 200 years ago), which is impressive when one considers that the city peaked in importance and population (84k, according to a quick google) some 800 years ago.

For all that, there’s not a lot to see; the tour César at the highest part of the town, the tithe barn, the exterior of the collegiate church, the ramparts, and… the fields outside the city.

The fields.

Exposed to a cold, blustery wind and a light mist for the entirety of the weekend, we understood the presence of the thick layers of moss evident on almost every stone, brick, or masonry-clad surface as the humidity spiked and the fog appeared, not to let up until we were well over halfway back to Paris on Sunday.

Our Saturday foray through the ville haute and out past porte Saint-Jean prompted a couple of rounds of “let’s walk over there,” which resulted in a walk through an old graveyard (some of the graves dated to the early 19th century, while one dated to last month) and the two of us, standing on the curve of a very narrow road (more of a paved walking path, to be honest), medieval ramparts behind us, fields in front of us, everything more than a few hundred meters distant obscured by fog.

More than the weirdly-authentic-feeling mini-renaissance-festival, more than the surprisingly lacklustre Christmas market, more than the pig that was being walked through said Christmas market, more than the hike up the slippery cobblestone steps of tour César, more than the nicely-barrel-vaulted-but-essentially empty grange aux dîmes, I will remember those fields, that fog, and us, standing in the cold mist, in silence.