Fezzik In Paris

closing a loop

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June 14, 2015

The Purrito is off at the Musée national de la Marine with her (soon to return to the States) father, which provides me with an opportunity to close the loop on a post that has been open since September of last year. I should, admittedly, go back and fix it, since it effectively just ends, but at this point, it’s firmly entrenched in my head as a testament to how ill I was in September. In any case, that’s one albatross shed.

An epic prow.

One of the many scale models of various ships of the line.

For all of your boat-sinking needs.

Buxom bosoms and boats are coincident.

A non-fished version.

A container ship model that was under construction (from our August 2014 visit)

Goat goat.

Amphorae.

The completed model, as seen in the current From Conatiners to Amphorae exhibit.

on heat

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June 6, 2015

I think I’m melting.

While this is, without question, a marked improvement from the previous two weeks of I-think-I’m-dying (oh immunosuppressants, you (unfortunately literally tried to) kill me), I must confess that I find it alarming that it was 32 degrees yesterday (approximately 90F), and we’re all of a week into the month of June.

Yes, yes; coming from Houston this shouldn’t be much of an issue, particularly when it’s supposed to drop back down to the upper 70s (F), but there are two parts to the response: the chilly fall, cold winter, and cool spring have pretty much ruined my tolerance to heat; second, if there’s a building in Houston, it’s air-conditioned, unless it’s an industrial facility or… I’m hard-pressed to come up with another example of an un-air-conditioned permanent structure.

Here, not so much. Work is most definitely air-conditioned (let’s hear it for the mechanics of high-rise buildings), the large mall in La Défense is air-conditioned (mostly; it seems to depend), and hotels are (mostly) air-conditioned. I assume that movie theatres (and maybe Galleries Lafayette and BHV) are as well, but other than that…

We survived last summer’s two warm weeks (which didn’t come until late July) with the help of a desk fan; the Purrito has procured a large stand fan for use in our bedroom, which will theoretically move more air around.

It’s almost enough to make one want to just hang around the office.

Almost.

last cow

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June 6, 2015

Last Saturday continued the trend of haphazardly-planned weekends, and we again wandered out to the convention center at Porte de Versailles.

The primary target of our interest was the exhibit on the Lascaux cave paintings, with a Lego exhibit of some sort on our list of secondary options (confession: I have repeatedly considered buying this set, but have not, due to doubts about how to get it back to Texas).

The Lascaux exhibit was, for the most part, well done; it included a history of the cave’s discovery, exploitation, near-ruin, and subsequent closure to the world at large. The Purrito questioned the point of the small-scale models of each of the cave’s chambers, and we agreed that they would have been more useful from a visualization standpoint had their interiors been painted or at least marked in a way that illustrated the placement of the major pieces.

The recreations of three of the major “panels” (the cow queen, the only scene with a human figure, and a scene that completely escapes me at the moment) were well worth seeing, to say nothing of the black light effect that was used to show the carvings under and around the paintings.

One aspect that I found lacking was that of artistic interpretation; I have vague recollections (from that damned art history class again) that the paintings are interesting form a technical standpoint (not from a materials standpoint, but rather from an execution standpoint), but no such commentary was to be found here. This is in-line with the apparent goal of approaching the cave from a strictly archaeological perspective, but I don’t think the scientific merit of the cave would have been tainted by a bit more discussion of the actual art.

Ex-post-toro, we decided that the Lego exhibit could wait. Unfortunately for everybody involved, there was a free “bio” exhibit, which really should have been a small slice of the Salon de l’Agriculture. In reality, it was an amusingly sad hall filled with new-agey woo; lithotherapy (crystals that are supposed to heal you; I’m not sure if this is a feng shui thing (it heals you from its place on the shelf?) or if you’re supposed to rub them all over yourself, or if you’re supposed to trepan yourself and insert the crystal into the resulting hole or…), chakra reading, iridology seminars, hemp clothing, and innumerable self-help books.

I feel compelled to note that the that-person-probably-smells-really-bad aesthetic is cross-cultural. Which I found a touch surprising, given the amount of donkey (and goat and horse) soap that was available for purchase.

Our jaunt into Le Salon Maison et Travaux was mercifully short; while it had originally been on the primary activity list, said salon was definitely not what we thought it would be.

A quick trip to Beaugrenelle (a shopping center in the 15e) later, and we headed home via a branch of the RER C that I did not know existed.

I’m doubtful that we’ll make it to the actual Lascaux (with it’s expanded recreation of the original cave), but I think the cow queen will be pleased with our pilgrimage to this satellite shrine.

Not the big cow. I thought I had a picture of that one…

Blacklight illumination of the outlines of the horses that surround the big cow.

The cow queen, in blacklight.

The RER C crosses the Seine via a bridge. I’m not sure how I failed to notice this.

Familiar-looking, no?

This isn’t a phase mom, this is who I really am.

Floating (Physically and Metaphorically)

Purrito

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May 29, 2015

Lately, I have been thinking about our house back in the US a lot more than normal. This is mostly due to the fact that it currently looks like a screenshot from Waterworld. Major parts of the city are underwater and more rain is on the way. So much for a drought.. (when it rains, it pours?). Our realtor contacted me and let me know that the tenant living in our house reported a roof leak and that he was sending someone out, but it wouldn’t be until the following day because EVERYONE had a roof leak or problem.(At least its not under water). Geep and I are of the same opinion that our realtor, which we often refer to as Douche-hog, is pretty much useless. He is terrible at communication and follow-up. At least he collects the money and helps the tenant with any problem she may have, even if it is not always in the most timely manner. That being said, it has been more than a few days since he told me about the problem and I replied back with a few questions, and I am still answerless. I hope our house is okay, but kinda not. We wouldn’t mind knocking it down and building another one, but that’s a different story.

There are two points I want to make here:

1) It is VERY important to find a good realtor to manage your home while you are over-seas expating. You need someone who is responsive and understanding of the time differences, etc. We were kind of in a pinch and he was our quickest option, even though we knew we weren’t going to be super thrilled with him. He looked at our house like it was a horribly disfigured barn cat and kept asking if it would be okay for the tenant to paint over some of our color choices, which he clearly did not approve of. I see him as more a beige everything kind of guy. It was also probably because our house was not a million dollar fortress on the lake he was more used to. Now, our house has some color in it ( lime green library, dark purple kitchen, etc) but it was tastefully done and not overwhelming. We didn’t know we were moving halfway around the world when he painted. It is our house after all. We understood, however, if someone wanted to paint a few places, but he acted like the things should just be sprayed white. He also said he would help us fight our property tax increase since it was crazy-pants, but never did. Needless to say, our property tax is even more crazy-pants than before. Thanks Douche-hog! Anyways, if you every decide to do what we did and move your whole life elsewhere for a little while, FIND A GOOD REALTOR!

2) With all this flooding and our hometown being in the news, it is hard to separate myself from here and there. We usually don’t take about going back too often, so we can ‘live in the moment’ and enjoy our time here in Paris. Plus, it gives us anxiety. How did we ever live without daily fresh baguettes? But, much to my chagrin, I have been thinking about the house and the US more than normal. It has even invaded me dreams. Now, we still have 6-7 months left ( we hope for one more extension after that,too) so it isn’t like we have to start prepping for our departure, but it is in the back of my mind. I had a rather vivid dream of us sitting on a stack of suitcases and looking out our window to the Invalides dome and feeling empty. I had another dream where we went for a walk the evening before leaving and drank lots of wine and cried. These are both very likely situations.

When we lived in the US, we didn’t know any better. I had never been overseas before moving here. Now that we have been introduced to this whole new world, we realize just how much we were missing. I’m not dogging American life, its a good place to live and has many perks, but I feel like France is more my home than Houston. The people here know how to live. I love going out with friends and not talking about their jobs, their kids, their families, etc. We talk about the new exhibits in the museums, things we saw that we found funny, places we went or are going, and books that we should all read. We talk about everything and nothing. It is wonderful. There is music, festivals, museums, and art fairs constantly changing here. Parisians are always learning, or have the opportunity to do so more than we did back home. (BTW, I don’t know if I can stomach a houston museum now. We shall see). This experience has changed us in so many ways, how will we ever go back to life before Paris? Will we get there and feel like it was all a dream? Like coma patients waking up after many years and remembering everything, but feelings like it was all so far away?

We try not to think about it, and will continue to do so. We need to live in the moment while we have it.

I blame all these feelings on the fact that our one year anniversary is coming up this Sunday. I keep looking back at the last 365 days with wonder and asstonishment. Look at everything we have done and everything we still need to do. It is impressive, but feels insignificant. It’s not enough. I just hope that when I return back to the states, that I will dream of Paris every night to remind me of our time here. Let me float in a dream world of baguettes, cold breezes, interesting conversations over small cups, and ancient history….. and find a MUCH better realtor.

mechanical bullshit

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May 28, 2015

As neither of us were feeling particularly spectacular this past Saturday, we decided to eschew our original museum-oriented plans in favor of visiting the canal Saint-Martin area.

The Purrito had been asking me if I wanted to go in the months previous; I admit, however, to having little interest until I learned (thanks, Stéfane le shrimpie and musée des égouts) that it wasn’t an Erie Canal-type operation (which is to say, an overgrown drainage ditch without even the charm of a donkey or two, owing to the contemporary setting), but rather a decent-sized channel that featured a couple of sets of locks.

The canal wasn’t the only thing in the area; the Purrito hinted at its hipster nature in her statement that “there’s shops and cafés that are of interest to me, and there’s mechanical bullshit for you. Something for everyone.”

Indeed, my love. Indeed.

One of the locks.

This guy seems fairly impressed with the setup.

Establishing shot of the vehicle bridge over the canal. Bonus: VW truck that isn’t imported into the states.

That thing has to move. That rail is involved.

A picture of the gate under the bridge on which I was just standing.

..it’s moving. Excitement…

…back atop the bridge. It definitely moved.

Hipster shops.

Not quite a lovely boat, but a nice boat nonetheless, homeported in Germany.

The Kenny Loggins music kicked in as I approached this sign.

This reminds me of that scene in Terms of Endearment.

Oh shit: we’re outlaws.

Remember the lock from the first few pictures? This is that same lock, full.

She ignored the klaxon and the descending gate and then proceeded to get huffy about having to walk across to the other side of the bridge.

The bridge begins to pivot…

Yup. Definitely moving.

It’s like a Disney ride for pigeons (and it may be in better mechanical condition than most of the rides in Disneyland Paris).

That’s enough mechanical bullshit for today.

it’s how steak is done

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May 28, 2015

After more than a year in Paris (though our official expatriation anniversary is coming up on Tuesday), I have a certificate that says that I know fuck-all about the French language. (EU language competency levels are located here, for those not in the know)

I’d have a celebratory beer (or even better, champagne), but I think we’re at the point at which my liver may decamp and move to the coast if I throw even one more thing its way.

I suppose I’ll have to settle for a rousing rendition of the pickle song.

no sex in the champagne room

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May 24, 2015

Nope.

I also have yet to see the grave of Dom Pérignon, despite having been scheduled to do so.

The four-day-weekend that marked the end of last week seemed like it was going to start things off in a promising manner; we’d have a day of rest before our weekend excursion, and we’d be able to avoid the last-minute laundromat-related issue that was the cause of the very close call we had with the departure of our train to Bruxelles (though we did learn that asking the taxi driver to hit it does, in fact, result in him hitting it; I’ve never been so comfortable with handing a taxi driver a 20€ note for a sub-10€ ride). Indeed, we left the apartment punctually, arrived at Gare de l’Est at a reasonable time, and enjoyed the whopping 45-minute TGV ride to Reims (I wish the Thalys trains had the bells and whistles of the newer TGVs; I do enjoy knowing that the train did indeed sustain 300-plus kph, even though it was only a 45 minute run) despite the slightly weird old woman sitting across from us (we were stuck at one of the tables) snorking and snarfing and generally unpleasantly consuming her sandwich wrap.

Arriving early (from the perspective of the hotel), we wandered to the town’s only standing Roman ruin, the Porte de Mars. The aparthotel (the Purrito’s stated goal was to make the travel and the hotel cheap, since we know ourselves well enough that we were anticipating spending a decent sum of money on wine) was even magnanimous enough to let us check in 40 minutes before their official check-in time. A visit to the Cathedrale, the Palais du Tau, and Sushi Shop later, and we headed to bed, with visions of a Hunter-S.-Thompson-but-with-champagne-style-Saturday dancing in our heads…

…I awoke on Saturday morning with the unfortunately-familiar pain in my temple, coupled with nausea. Given my good fortune over the last few months (I’ve only had three or four migraines since arriving a year ago, a rather unprecedented and welcome reduction), I hoped that it was simply a low-sugar headache; downing the sugar packets next to the coffee-maker, I thought I might be well enough to go. I mucked about on my Surface while the Purrito slept, and was planning on keeping my mouth shut until we opened the blinds and the light poured in.

I very nearly vomited.

A bit of hand-wringing later, it was decided that I’d toss back some Treximet while the Purrito forged ahead; the tasting was with a small group, so there would be other people present. Moreover, it made little sense to ruin the trip for both of us when there was no reason that the Purrito couldn’t go and enjoy herself.

The Purrito thus went to the wineries, while I went back to bed; I would wake up a few hours later, better, if somewhat woozy, and proceed to wander around the city on my own. I wound up in an almost-entertainingly-ghetto part of the city (for which I have no pictures as it struck me as wise to put my camera away), went to a museum that was free if ultimately disappointing, got rained on, sat (in the rain) in front of the cathedral trying to find the nearest Starbucks as I’d seen ads throughout the city, gave up as I realized that the nearest one was actually some 150km away, in Disneyland Paris, and finally, bought a sandwich from a Monoprix whereien the cashier incredulously asked if I lived in Reims (it was apparently entertaining that I forgot the French word for napkin, which she was attempting to offer me) and then giggled when I responded that no, I live in Paris.

At least the train ride back was short.

A statue of Colbert (wrong one; this one was the finance minister under Louis XIV) greets people as they exit the Reims TGV station.

All of the public transport was painted in lively colors.

The Porte de Mars, a Roman gate that was incorporated into the medieval city walls and somewhat miraculously left standing after they were taken down. You can walk up to it and touch it. (I can neither confirm nor deny that I walked up to it and touched it)

Covered shops.

Notre-Dame de Reims, the cathedral in which the French kings were crowned.

It’s big.

We’re back to standing on animals.

As I said, it’s big.

The stained glass piece over the entrance peeks out from behind some restoration-related scaffolding.

The Purrito dug this massive cuckoo clock.

Both of us thought found these windows sad.

More depressing windows.

Candle goes here.

Detail of the windows created by Marc Chagall.

A wider shot of the Chagall windows.

A plant of some sort that is defiantly growing where it shouldn’t.

After Alsace was annexed during the first guerre mondiale, Reims was all of 20-odd kilometers from the border, and was shelled heavily. As the roof of the cathedral burned, the lead melted, hence the metal-vomiting gargoyles.

Everything is big here.

Form the next-door Palais du Tau, normally the archbishop’s residence, but also the sanctuary where the king stayed the night before the crowning ceremony. While the vast majority of the crown’s lucre was melted down during the revolution, a few pieces survived.

Mega-Aurora.

The sad and out-of-the-way Basilique Saint-Remi.

The entrance to the attached abbey was pretty neat.

The abbey (and basilica) were built on Roman-era ruins.

Tapestries.

The rest of the museum was kind of sad. This strongly reminded me of the “learnin’ rooms” that they used to have at the New Mexico State Fair.

Reims, having been mostly destroyed, was rebuilt in the 20s. Andrew Carnegie financed the (gorgeous) Art Deco library.

Champagne- and cognac-filled chocolates.

Thé

Purrito

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May 12, 2015

We are blessed to live in an area surrounded by cafes, however, most of the time I end up at the *extremely* convenient Starbucks down the street. Don’t judge me, it’s fast and portable. The french really love their coffee. They drink it in the morning, after lunch, during work, after drinks at the bar, before bed, etc. It can become an expensive habit. I noticed my coffee consumption ticking up slowly from the usual one I had on Sunday mornings, to two-three times a week, sometimes more. I know that Starbucks coffee has TERRIBLE calories hidden in them, but I am very aware of that and only choose reasonable things. Ex: Tall Cafe Latte with Soy milk or Skim milk. But, it adds up! Even less evil coffee at the cafes are around 3.50 Euro a pop, which is completely fair, but if I drink them as much as some of my French friends do, that’s quite a bit. Alas, the solution has presented itself! We had an electric kettle in our flat when we moved in, but since it looked gross, we banished it to the closet. I have collected all kinds of tea through the past few months and it often sits forgotten in the cabinet, until I remembered the dilapidated kettle. Yes, I know that you can throw water in a mug and put it in the microwave, but I hate doing that. The tea never tastes right. I pulled the thing from its cave and soaked it with vinegar and lemon until it sparkled like….. something sparkly. It was completely transformed from the sad dingy thing it was, into a proper useable kettle. I pulled down my new favorite ( Nina’s Marie Antoinette Thé with hints of apple and rose from Versailles) and filled the pot. *Snap*. It is NOT supposed to make that noise when you push the button. Nor is the button supposed to wiggle all over. All that hard work, and I had successfully cleaned a broken kettle. CURSES. Since I was the one that made the discovery, and not the apartment owner upon the move out of the last tenant, we had to replace it. Those suckers are not cheap! I mean, they are, but I’m cheap! I looked at several of them and nothing was under 29.00 euro. They were also all way too big for what we needed. Luckily, there is an amazingly useful junk shop down the street that had a smaller one for only 15 euro! (Hooray!).

Now I have something sitting on my counter to remind me that I have tea and it takes less than a minute to get properly hot water for it. I can start working on depleting my current tea stash down to a much smaller size. Do you hear that Geep? I’M DRINKING IT. I am on my third cup today.

dumb idea of the week: seizing the day

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May 9, 2015

The Purrito and her crew went to Giverny yesterday. Seeing as it was a holiday, Victoire 1945, under normal circumtances, this would be free license for me to camp out on the kitchen table and play video games all day, something that, in retrospect, I should have done. Instead, I decided to (try to) be a responsible adult, and do the things that needed to be done.

Not wanting to run the risk of being admonished by my very French doctor again (the Purrito has flatly stated that his willingness to finger-waggle me contributes significantly to the high esteem she holds him in), I decided that I’d shower and head to the lab to get the required bloodwork done. Heading out, I noted that it was a bit quiet, but that there were a few things open, so I figured I had a decent chance of getting my list done. Making my way to the lab, I was disappointed to note that it was closed, particularly since the notice of fermeture exceptionelle had Saturday’s date, not Friday’s. I looped back around to the apartment, hatching a plan; I’d check the hours at the hospital’s in house lab, head up there, go back down to Concorde to grab grammar books and macarrons, and then head home.

The hours for the hospital checked out, and there was no notice of closure, so I hopped in an Uber.

…an hour later (normal trip time: 25 minutes), I arrived. Both the driver and I had forgotten that the Champs-Élysées was closed due to the imminent parade. Walking into the hospital, it was again quiet, but not completely abandoned, but the lab was most decidedly closed. Thwarted once more, I considered grabbing a taxi to head up to La Défense (having decided that there was too great a chance that everything at Concorde would be closed), but decided against it, as the cab drivers typically use the northern chunk of the Champs-Élysées (technically avenue de la grande armée) to get there, and I had little doubt that one of them would “forget” about the closure in a ploy to run up the meter.

Five minute into my 20 minute hike to the Pont de Neuilly station, it started to rain.

While almost the entirety of CNIT was closed, FNAC was, mercifully, open, something I had begun to doubt, though I hadn’t seen any fermeture exceptionelle notices on the door in the preceding days. I bought my French grammar books, picked up the Lego Hobbit game for 3DS since it was in their bargain bin, and headed the hell home, four hours of my guilt-free gaming time wasted.

In retrospect, I should have known all of this was going to happen; a year in, I slipped back in to the very classist assumption that rules the US: holidays are for white-collar workers, and everything else will be open as normal. Such is not the case in la France, and I’d do well to remember that.

lyin’ in belgium

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May 5, 2015

Our adventures in the colder parts of the European continent have taken us through Bruxelles thrice now; we’ve passed through twice on our way to Amsterdam and once on our way to Bruges. While the stops were always short (on the order of three or four minutes in the case of the Amsterdam trips, a whopping five or so for Bruges as the conductor had to go from the previous front of the train to the new front of the train), I always found myself looking at the window (the back of my head in the Purrito’s face; she’s an occupier of window seats, whereas I tend to get grumpy if not in an aisle seat) wondering to no one in particular as to what this or that building is and how interesting I imagined the business district to be (it’s the [undeclared] capital of the EU, which elevates this assumed level of interesting to pretty damn high).

I suppose that it is thus odd that, from a philosophical standpoint, I find myself wondering if we actually went to Brussels (I’m currently imagining the sigh that will escape the Purrito when she reads this, but onward, to glory…); we bought train tickets to Brussels. Our hotel was in Brussels (the Sainte-Catherine district, to be precise). We walked through the Grote Markt, saw the remnants of the medieval gate from the window of a bus, bought nominally Belgian chocolate (far, far too sweet), photographed Manneken Pis, and even ate at the Hard Rock Café Brussels (I wanted a new T-shirt to sleep in; so sue me). We did not, however, enter the medieval gate, descend into the subterranean museum under the city center, run around mini-Europe, subject ourselves to the extortion that apparently defines a visit to Atomium, or walk through the gleaming business district to sate my curiosity regarding whether The International (criminally underrated) was actually filmed in Brussels (yes, I am aware of the existence of IMDB).

Indeed, our Brussels visit was not really to the city itself, but rather to a hill.

The hill in question is by no means normal; it’s 40-odd meters high (225 steps up) and has an approximately 25-tonne, 5-meter-high lion standing on top of it. It’s 4km from the Wellington Museum at the center of Waterloo, which is itself approximately 15 kilometers south of Brussels. The mound is also much further away from Gare de Braine-l’Alleud than the nice lady at the tourist office told us it was, so while we muttered under our breaths about the unexpected 3km hike to a train back to Brussels (which, funny story, we didn’t end up taking, since the bus line that had taken us to Waterloo terminated at that very train station), we don’t hold any lasting resentment because she let the Purrito pull a fresh plush lion (wearing a Waterloo tee shirt) from the as-yet-unpacked box that he and his clones were shipped in. The Purrito’s fitbit overlord was also assuaged by the surprise hike, so there was a secondary benefit.

I liked the hill, dug the lion, completely forgot about the Wellington museum approximately 30 seconds after we exited, and had my dislike of buses reaffirmed (they’re my transportation nemeses at this point).

All in all, it was a fun trip, albeit one where nothing was quite what we expected it to be. Alas, our journey to Brussels just had effectively nothing to do with Brussels.

Brussels felt like a very strange mix of France, the Netherlands, and the States; Dutch architecture, French cafés and shops, but with a huge dose of car culture (their métro system seems to suck, to be blunt), shameless advertising, and unappealing food (seriously; it was like Rodeo food but in café settings). Also, this particularly classy advertisement.

Belgian pigeons seem to be on the much larger size.

Pigeons here tended towards the very large end of the spectrum.

An interesting discovery in the vicinity of our hotel: a memorial to pigeon courier troops of the first world war.

Detail of the helmet and pigeon.

A closer look at the buxom statue.

Bimmers and boarded-up windows. Hm.

This bus is very yellow.

The temporary exhibition was actually well worth our time.

Arguably the most interesting thing associated with the Wellington Museum (great gift shop…if only we had realized that the one at the lion would be so bad).

Arguably the second most interesting thing in the Wellington Museum.

Le hameau du lion.

This thing is hard to photograph.

This is supposed to be finished in time for the 200 year fête that’s taking place between the 18th and 21st of June. I wonder what the delayed completion fees are when you manage to ruin something’s bicentennial.

Still hard to photograph.

Halfway there…

The view from approximately the halfway point.

The view of the lion, as seen from the top of the lion’s mound.

Hey buddy.

Looking down the side of the hill.

Homeboy needs a zebraburger.

Lion harbls.

A 3.5 meter tall panorama (housed by the cylindrical building seen in the establishing shots). I loathed this thing on a visceral level, but have no idea as to why.

A shot of the main square. (we’re back in Brussels with this photograph).

Brussels was somewhat like Amsterdam in that there were roving bands of bachelor party (and one bachelorette party) revelers. I didn’t get a glance at the signs that this group was wielding, but I assume that they were celebrating the appearance of a Hot Topic.

Manneken Pis.

As one would expect of a nearly 400-year-old joke, there were numerous imitators. This one was my favorite.