Anyway, it was time to get back to the UK, where I had been working, kind-of, so I got on the train to Paris, where I would catch the Chunnel to London, where I would catch a train or bus--I don't even remember anymore--to Cardiff. But before that, I wanted to walk around Paris for as long as I could. When I was in Paris for my longest stretch there at a time--almost six weeks in September, 2007--I would walk around almost every night. Even my host mother was in awe of my love of walking around Paris--I could do it for as long as my feet held out, or longer. I would also get up early and walk to class--at least some of the way--even though I had a monthly metro pass. So, that day in 2000, I made it to the Gare du Nord just in time, having said goodbye for a while to one of my favorite cities.
Paris has a huge piece of my heart that I couldn't take back if I wanted to, but I feel no need to see anything official in Paris. When I was there that September, with the Smith Geneva program, we had (1) an art historian take us around, twice a week, to the most significant museums and monuments, and (2) a cultural budget for stuff we did on our own. And I did just about everything. This is not to say that I would mind doing any of it again, but I didn't feel a particular pull to do so. Which is good, because this time around, I didn't have time. We had meetings or trains to catch pretty much all day, every day. But I got some glimpses of the city, some nice walks in before things opened.
I was also excited to see Anne again and to meet the family she now has. She got married the summer I moved to DC, so I couldn't go to the wedding, and I hadn't even met her husband. Even though I haven't seen her since that spring day in 2000, it felt like neither of us had changed.
***
You start to feel at home in a far-off place--I noticed, after a few trips, that I felt 'normal' on Oahu, and feeling normal there felt weird--and I didn't know whether I'd feel at home in Paris. I didn't even know whether French would come out when I opened my mouth. But it did, without my thinking about it, first on the flight over when the Air France flight attendant addressed me in French--product plug: the Bose were so effective in creating a sense of quiet that I was apparently whispering, such that she asked me if I had a cold--and then at the airport, when someone asked me whether everyone from our flight would have already come through the main terminal. And so it continued throughout the trip: the right words came out, just like they used to.
The Parisians were unfailingly polite helpful. I hear about this alleged Parisian rudeness and have to wonder where on earth it comes from, because I've not experienced it, ever (apart from people whose business is street harassment, but you find that everywhere).
So once we settled in, I headed to the 'burbs to see Anne. The machines at the station wouldn't take my chipless credit card, so I fretted and asked for help. Let me tell you, having gone through the same thing in Prague over the summer: this is soooo much easier when you speak the language. In the end, the easiest thing to do was to buy a silly magazine to make (coin) change. This provided reading on the RER; in particular, reading about the pregorexia trend having reached France. I couldn't believe anyone would starve their fetus--I'd not previously heard the word--but I guess it's real. The magazine blamed it on celebrities, but really? Really? If Kate Moss threw her kid into traffic, would you do it?
Anyway, Anne and her middle daughter picked me up at the train station. It was lovely to see her, and to meet the girls, one at a time, and of course, her husband, who made an almost-vegan molten chocolate cake in my honor (organic eggs, no dairy). It was amazing, as was the smoked tofu and other food they made. We hung out for a bit; I heard all about the oldest girl's recent birthday party, which had a Fort Boyard theme (their version of Fear Factor). Anne had pointed out the actual Fort Boyard to me nearly fifteen years ago, on the ferry from La Rochelle to Ile d'Oleron. I recognized the image immediately.
The youngest was so well-behaved as I carried her to the car that the eldest suggested that Anne take a picture. The eldest also presented me with a lovely drawing that I'll use for office art.
That afternoon, we headed into the city and walked around the Christmas market past Champs Elysees. It was beautiful, tasteful.
On the way into the city, in the car, Anne had asked me where I primarily shopped. I told her Banana Republic, which she hadn't heard of, so I supposed it wasn't a think in France. But there it was, on the Champs Elysees! She took a picture of me in front of it. Yes, my friends: of all the pictures of myself I could have had taken on the Champs Elysees, I opted for one in front of Banana.
After dinner, we parted ways, and I headed back to my hotel.
The rest of the time in France was all work, all craziness... but there was lots of beauty to be taken in along the way.
You start to feel at home in a far-off place--I noticed, after a few trips, that I felt 'normal' on Oahu, and feeling normal there felt weird--and I didn't know whether I'd feel at home in Paris. I didn't even know whether French would come out when I opened my mouth. But it did, without my thinking about it, first on the flight over when the Air France flight attendant addressed me in French--product plug: the Bose were so effective in creating a sense of quiet that I was apparently whispering, such that she asked me if I had a cold--and then at the airport, when someone asked me whether everyone from our flight would have already come through the main terminal. And so it continued throughout the trip: the right words came out, just like they used to.
The Parisians were unfailingly polite helpful. I hear about this alleged Parisian rudeness and have to wonder where on earth it comes from, because I've not experienced it, ever (apart from people whose business is street harassment, but you find that everywhere).
So once we settled in, I headed to the 'burbs to see Anne. The machines at the station wouldn't take my chipless credit card, so I fretted and asked for help. Let me tell you, having gone through the same thing in Prague over the summer: this is soooo much easier when you speak the language. In the end, the easiest thing to do was to buy a silly magazine to make (coin) change. This provided reading on the RER; in particular, reading about the pregorexia trend having reached France. I couldn't believe anyone would starve their fetus--I'd not previously heard the word--but I guess it's real. The magazine blamed it on celebrities, but really? Really? If Kate Moss threw her kid into traffic, would you do it?
Anyway, Anne and her middle daughter picked me up at the train station. It was lovely to see her, and to meet the girls, one at a time, and of course, her husband, who made an almost-vegan molten chocolate cake in my honor (organic eggs, no dairy). It was amazing, as was the smoked tofu and other food they made. We hung out for a bit; I heard all about the oldest girl's recent birthday party, which had a Fort Boyard theme (their version of Fear Factor). Anne had pointed out the actual Fort Boyard to me nearly fifteen years ago, on the ferry from La Rochelle to Ile d'Oleron. I recognized the image immediately.
The youngest was so well-behaved as I carried her to the car that the eldest suggested that Anne take a picture. The eldest also presented me with a lovely drawing that I'll use for office art.
That afternoon, we headed into the city and walked around the Christmas market past Champs Elysees. It was beautiful, tasteful.
On the way into the city, in the car, Anne had asked me where I primarily shopped. I told her Banana Republic, which she hadn't heard of, so I supposed it wasn't a think in France. But there it was, on the Champs Elysees! She took a picture of me in front of it. Yes, my friends: of all the pictures of myself I could have had taken on the Champs Elysees, I opted for one in front of Banana.
After dinner, we parted ways, and I headed back to my hotel.
The rest of the time in France was all work, all craziness... but there was lots of beauty to be taken in along the way.
***
Our next destination had excited me less, but I liked it better than I'd remembered it. The most memorable moment for me, outside of work, was when we were walking back from dinner and I saw some macarons in a display window.
A.: Oh, Jay would love those. But I doubt they'll keep.
Coworker: Oh, is that your gay bitch?
A.: [does all she can to not roll on the ground laughing.]
I mean, he may be, but I think the term he was going for was "gay husband."
Here are some views of Brussels:
***
Next (and final) stop: Stockholm. Which I loved when I was there in the summer. Still, it was beautiful in the winter, and it wasn't that cold. I mean, it was cold, but it was tolerable. People were certainly out and about. Look, it's me, looking very Russian! Which is something I don't aspire to, but sometimes one can't help it.
I did slip on the ice and fall on my butt, but that's why we have butts. To my shock, Sweden doesn't do snow management much better than DC. Part of it is that they figure that snow is safer than ice to walk and drive on, so why not leave some of it.
As we were walking on a main pedestrian shopping street, my (other) coworker remarked on the statues of lions gracing the walkway. Why, he asked, do countries opt for such beasts to project their power? Why not, say, gerbils?
Our next destination had excited me less, but I liked it better than I'd remembered it. The most memorable moment for me, outside of work, was when we were walking back from dinner and I saw some macarons in a display window.
A.: Oh, Jay would love those. But I doubt they'll keep.
Coworker: Oh, is that your gay bitch?
A.: [does all she can to not roll on the ground laughing.]
I mean, he may be, but I think the term he was going for was "gay husband."
Here are some views of Brussels:
***
Next (and final) stop: Stockholm. Which I loved when I was there in the summer. Still, it was beautiful in the winter, and it wasn't that cold. I mean, it was cold, but it was tolerable. People were certainly out and about. Look, it's me, looking very Russian! Which is something I don't aspire to, but sometimes one can't help it.
I did slip on the ice and fall on my butt, but that's why we have butts. To my shock, Sweden doesn't do snow management much better than DC. Part of it is that they figure that snow is safer than ice to walk and drive on, so why not leave some of it.
As we were walking on a main pedestrian shopping street, my (other) coworker remarked on the statues of lions gracing the walkway. Why, he asked, do countries opt for such beasts to project their power? Why not, say, gerbils?
The first coworker fixated on some t-shirts that said "I love my Swedish boyfriend," said perhaps I may consider one for one of my "gay persons."
The next day we hit the Wasa Museum.
Speaking of power projection gone wrong, what an example of trying to send a message at the expense of substance!
Other highlights from Sweden: lots of snow,
Lots of people who like to walk right into you. It was the pushiest country we'd been to. Oh, there was a moment--during the work part--where we had to strip down to our underclothes and put on special protective jumpsuits. I had a "Zoolander" moment, thought, "good think I wore underwear today." Unfortunately, we didn't get pictures of ourselves in said jumpsuits. But I did get lots of other pictures.
Look! A crazy person fishing,
Here's the restaurant in our hotel.
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1 comment:
Beautiful pictures! Thanks for sharing.
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