Carte de Sejour

I'm finally a legal resident of France! Today I finally received my titre de séjour, the visa-like document that acts as a national identification card and which allows me to stay in France, unemployed, for up to a year. It's a dinky little thing, looks a lot like a driver's license, and doesn't in any way seem appropriate to the enormous amount of effort I had to go through to obtain it (as is apparently the case for most official titles in France).

Today is December 15th. I started applying for my carte de séjour in early September. That's four months of démarches before I can finally, say, open a French Bank Account. I can't imagine what it must be like for people trying to move to France for good - for people who need the carte de séjour before they can be given a job or health care and other such niceties.

Not to mention how frustrating and time-consuming the process was... lots of waiting in lines, only to discover that it's too late in the day and I must come back tomorrow, or that no, this isn't the office you need to speak to, or that sorry, your documents aren't ready yet, try back in a few weeks. And for the privilege of experiencing that painful inefficiency, they charge you a couple hundred dollars.

In America, we don't think of the French as tedious bureaucrats. Our image of them is more Laissez-faire and such... but REALLY. It's sort of like the Anglo-Saxon love of order and rules was co-oped by well-intentioned Latin types who care enough to insist on process, but have a general disregard for time or for carrying through what they started, because - Hey, Ciao. But I'll stop bashing the French - they did, after all, just agree to let me hang around for another 12 months.

Strasbourg, or The Joys of Travel

I just got back from three days in Strasbourg, "The Capital of Noel" - a city in the Alsace region with a complicated history of being passed back and forth between the French and Germany governments. It now houses the European Parliament and European Court of Human Rights.

Christmas markets in Strasbourg are "legendary", meaning that they are now flocked to by American, Canadian, French, German and Italian tourists by the thousand each December. I was looking forward to a break from Paris and a chance to enjoy some of the Christmas market charm that I had experienced in Hamburg when I visited my brother for the winter holidays four years ago.

Fate was against me, sadly, and between forgetting my carte 12-25 at home (the card that allows me to use my youth-rate, 50% discounted train tickets), selecting the camera battery without any power, and having my trip coincide with a cold-front that brought freezing rain to the Alsatian region, I almost didn't have a good time.

Strasbourg is a beautiful city...it's historic center encircled by the narrow river Ill, with low, grassy banks that have a sort of primordial charm about them. On my last day, I took a trip around the city on a glass-covered boat (heated, with clean toilets and Mozart playing in the background of the audio tour!). We got to go through two sets of locks as we navigated different levels of the river, and although bumpy it was fun. Probably the most enjoyable part of the trip.

Also cool was the astronomical clock in the Strasbourg Cathedral. It goes off around noon each day (you must buy tickets and wait in line for about half an hour and then get inside the church and stand around waiting some more). As I sad, my camera was nonfunctional, but here's a picture from the web.

The Christmas markets themselves were kind of a disappointment. Lots of kitsch, and about a billion varieties of vin chaud and tarte flambée (a kind of pizza-like item that the French Strasbourgeois consider a meal... take a baguette, slather in cream, top with shredded cheese and lardons, and then grill until melted. I could feel my arteries hardening just watching people eat these things.)

Fortunately, there were enough other delights to prevent the trip from becoming a total failure - a choral concert of English carols, sung by French women in an overly-colorful protestant church; the bredel market, where hopeful vendors offered me bites of gingerbread and other cookies; an exposition on French photographer Doisneau, with photos of Alsace taken by the artist on his trip of the region in 1945; the utter joy of a spinach-and-cheese galette from Bertani, an outdoor crêpe stand in the Place Broglie; the utter joy of a vegetarian galette consumed on the same spot the next day.

My shoulders may still be sore from toting around a useless camera, and there's a good chance that I'll have caught a cold from spending the good part of three days outside in the freezing rain, but I'll never forget the taste of those Bertani crêpes, or the beauty of the Half-timbered houses along the River Ill.

Salon Saveurs des Plaisirs Gourmands

Today I went to another salon, this one entitled, quite promisingly, the Salon Saveurs des Plaisirs Gourmands - which, roughly translated, means the "flavors of gluttonous pleasures exhibition show". Admission was supposed to be 8 euro, but like at so many french salons, there were free admission cards strewn about the entrance - and so I filled out my name and mailing address and strolled right in without giving up a single centime.
Much like the salon du chocolat, this event was centered around the attempt by a few hundred artisan producers to sell their edible, gourmet products to Parisians - the group of people with the most discriminating palates in the world. In addition, the French are not prone to enthusiastic feedback. Whereas in America, people might respond to samples of free food with an "Oh, it's delicious!," the French believe that they are being generous if they concede a simple "c'est pas mal' (it's not bad).
All this adds up to a rather uncharacteristic show of good salesmanship on the part of the French vendors. Customer service is never a given in a Paris - whether you are shopping for shoes, jewelry, makeup, or food... it can often take 20 minutes to get the salesclerk's attention, even when you are the only customer in the store. Here, by contrast, people try to catch your eye, and thrust at you plates of foie gras, cheese cubes, bread crusts smeared with tapenade, the words "une petite dégustation?" hopefully fluttering from their lips.
I sampled various meats and cheeses, olives, fruits, chocolate and other confections. There was a ton of alcohol to be had as well, but the vendors are more stingy about it - you need to initiate contact and to at least fake an interest in purchasing before you are invited to sample their wares.
Today, my accent garnered me a lot of attention: the knife salesman whose friend made fun of him for using such an unoriginal excuse to dragger (flirt); the guy who kept offering me sheep's cheese while he asked about my romantic availability; the marzipan seller who shivered in joy and complimented my "petit accent de rêve" (rêve = dream). Americans may think that English with a French accent is sexy, but the French think that French with an American accent is adorable, in a sort of charming, kittenish way. "Don't loose that accent!," I've had French men admonish me for simply wanting to sound like a native.
After an hour or two of grazing, I grew tired. Before heading home, laden with gifts, I had to get some coconut "sorbet" from a Caribbean food stand that was enjoying a great success - it seemed that nearly everyone was walking around with a small white solo cup, overflowing with creamy white glace. The ice cream was fresh, being churned as you watched in an old-fashioned barrel by two able-bodied émigrés from the outre-mer. And it was delicious: smooth and cold with a strong but creamy coconut flavor and little specks of spices - vanilla and perhaps some lime zest?. It was the perfect finish to a flavorful, pleasurable, and maybe even somewhat gluttonous gray December afternoon.

You know you're in Paris when...

Last night I was walking along the arcade de louvre, the covered sidewalk across the street from the Jardin des Tuileries and Musée du Louvre. I had just spent the last hour curled up with a book in a coffee-and-dessert shop in the Marais, and was on my way to meet a friend for a book signing event at W.H. Smith, the large Anglo-bookstore located near Place de la Concorde.

I could just catch glimpse of the Eiffel Tower - with it's bizarre blue lights - shining over the tops of the trees in the Jardin. I looked away for a minute, distracted by something in a shop window, and when my gaze returned, the steel lady was doing her shimmy-dance, sparkling up a white-and-gold light storm. Ah, I thought, it must be seven o'clock. The strange decadence of this thought then struck me.

Here in Paris, we tell time by the illumination of the Eiffel Tower. It's true though, we can - at least at nighttime. Every hour, on the hour, after dark, a thousand mounted flash bulbs go off in an unsynchronized manner, and the steel lady sparkles evocatively for about 3 minutes. A little bit like a showgirl on the nearby Avenue des Champs Elysées. Ah, Paris...

Boniato Pie

Yesterday I made a feeble attempt to celebrate Thanksgiving in Paris.

Not being much of a meat eater, I wasn't about to tackle turkey or stuffing - but I did find myself feeling nostalgic for sweet potatoes and marshmallows come lunchtime. Unfortunately, other than carrots, there is a dearth of beta-carotene rich vegetables in France: no sweet potatoes, no cans of Libby's pumpkin puree. Quite honestly, I thought things were hopeless - until strolling through Tang Frères Asian supermarket, I spied a bin of starchy tubers labeled "patates douces".

Sweet potatoes! They looked a little unusual, rougher and darker skinned than typical American sweet potatoes. I should have been suspicious, but joy overwhelmed by judgement. I brought the tubers home, popped them in the combination microwave/oven, and roasted them for about an hour. I started preparing the crust, crumbling cinnamon cookies and melting butter.

I cannot describe my dismay when, peeling the potatoes, I discovered their flesh to be white. White! Not that appealing orange-hued, vitamin-rich texture that I love and had been joyfully anticipating. Unfazed, I began mixing in minute quantities of beet juice (don't ask me why I had this in my fridge - but yes, it is a well known "natural" food colorant). The puree started to more closely resemble the reddish shade I desired.

I added all the cream, sugar, eggs and spices that the recipe called for, but still it was lacking. The white sweet potatoes were starchier and less sweet than the one's for which my recipe is meant. So I added extra egg yolks - beautiful, bright-orange, omega-3-rich yolks from free-ranging french chickens. This helped the color a bit. More maple syrup, for sweetness and color. More cinnamon, for flavor and color. More beet juice, for color (fortunately, teaspoon-size quantities were effective at changing the color without altering the flavor. Still, my batter lacked a little umph. I looked around the kitchen, desperate at this point. Bourbon? Why not. Apple cider vinegar? That'll add some zing. Miraculously, it began to actually taste good.

I popped the pie into the tiny oven - hopeful, but with low expectations. After 50 minutes it was done, perhaps even over-baked (I still haven't gotten that Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion thing down pat), and somewhat resembled a sweet potato pie.


I tried to wait until after dinner, but couldn't go on and serve that pie to someone else without knowing that it was okay. I cut myself a slice. It was different. A thicker texture than pumpkin or sweet potato pie, more cake-like than custard, but yet nice. I may have managed to salvage the pastry disaster, but I wouldn't try and make it again.

I think that the tubers I picked up at the grocery store were of a variety called "boniato", "tropical sweet potato", or "Cuban sweet potato". According to the Cook's Thesaurus, these white-fleshed tubers are less sweet and less moist than typical sweet potatoes. Yep. So, add it to the list of reasons why I'll never want to settle-down in Paris... lack of American sweet potatoes. Those Franciliens don't know what they're missing.

Welcome home

This morning I returned to Paris after a three-week, whirlwind tour of US medical school admissions offices. Stumbling off the plane at 6:45 am (my body utterly convinced that it was shortly after midnight), I queued up to go through customs and started assembling my papers.

Having moved to Paris in mid-August, I have yet to receive my one-year carte de séjour (isn't French bureaucracy wonderful?!). Lacking this document, I have to show my original visa - which expired in October, my temporary "visa to return to France", and a very official-looking récipisse (complete with ID photo and watermark) which shows that I am in the process of trying to obtain my carte de séjour.

When my turn came, I stepped up to the counter, thrust my papers towards the custom officer, and with a cheerful "Bonjour!" began to explain my situation. "Ne vous inquietez pas," he said calmly, amused by my concern. Handing me my stamped passport, he shook his head and smiled: "Ah, vous êtes charmante".
Welcome back to France, where no romantic come-on goes unsaid.

My adopted city then greeted me in characteristic fashion with a railroad strike. Line RER B, the commuter rail that crosses Paris north-to-south and connects Charles de Gaulle/Roissy airport to the city's mass transit was not running. This happens about once a month. Fortunately, the strike only affects the central part of the line (all stops between Gare du Nord and Denfert Rochereau). I was able to take the train from the airport to Gare du Nord and then transfer to metro line 5, which terminates (after about 12 painfully-slow stops) not too far from my house.

Trying to make my way through Gare du Nord with my luggage, I got stuck in a mob pushing me towards the metro entrance. Not having had a chance to recharge my metro pass, I tried to piggy-back through the gate on the person in front of me. This is illegal, and sure enough the sliding doors closed on me and my luggage. I was trapped, unable to move either forward or backward. After some confusion, the woman behind me swiped her monthly pass and the doors opened, allowing me to pass through.

Finally I got home, found my roommates there to let me in (I had loaned one of them my keys during my absence). The apartment has been decorated in Obama victory photos cut-out from French and American news journals. On my phone there was a message from a French acquaintance, congratulating me on Obama's victory, "from the bottom of her heart". Not a bad welcome after all.

Chocolate Overload

Conversation that took place last night between me and one of my flatmates (translated from French):
"I want to go to the Salon de Chocolat tomorrow, to spoil myself (pour me gâter)"
He wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "se gâter?"
This is the verb used to describe a spoiled child (enfant gâté). I search my vocabulary for an alternative. "to indulge myself (pour m'indulger)?"
"To be indulgent means to be lenient when you're supposed to be punishing someone."
"Okay, so how do the French describe the act of giving one's self over to excessive pleasure?"
"Excessive pleasure? There is no such concept in France."

This cultural exchange was indeed confirmed by my experience today at the Salon de Chocolat. Filling an exposition hall at the Porte de Versailles, this collection of over 100 exhibitors was a stereotypically French spectacle of chocolate, alcohol and excess. For an entrance fee of 12 euros, I was admitted to a seemingly endless array of presenters, most of them providing free dégustations (tastings) of chocolate, truffles, nougat, pralines, marshmallows, macarons, pain aux épices, and other artisan confections. In the center of the hall, a stage with live music and dancers paid tribute to the cultures of South American countries from whence chocolate originates.

For two hours I reveled in the experience, savoring more unique transformations of chocolate and sugar than I had ever known existed. After about two hours I suddenly reached a saturation point, feeling repulsed by the mere idea of consuming more chocolate. The Parisians, on the other hand, were still going strong - pulsing in frenzied crowds around vendors who, since it was the salon's final day, were suddenly dropping their prices. One popular booth was selling foie gras-chocolate baguette sandwiches (seriously, people?). Another distributed cups of molten chocolate-passion fruit ganache.

The day's highlights were as follows: the aforementioned chocolate-passion fruit ganache, cannabis-flavored truffles, dark chocolate with star anise, pistachio-green tea nuggets, chocolate-olive oil-marzipan confections shaped like green olive leaves, an Italian muscat wine, and chocolate-covered raisins previously macerated in rum. Ouf.

Le Village des Pruniers

Yesterday afternoon I returned to Paris, having spent a week at Plum Village, Thich Nhat Hanh's Buddhist retreat in Southern France. Although I'm now rushing to get things ready for my return to the states (for medical school interviews), I have no regrets about my rather spontaneous decision to make this trip.

Le Village des Pruniers (a closer translation would be Plum Tree Village), is a peaceful Hamlet (4 peaceful Hamlets, actually) located about an hour southeast of Bordeaux, in a region known for its wine, plums, and sanglier (wild boar). The lower hamlet, where I stayed, is a group of old French farmhouses surrounded by fields of perfectly aligned plum trees, golden-leafed grape vines, and sunflowers withering in the autumn frost. It is distinguishable from neighboring farms due to the lotus pond, pagoda housing a huge bell, and the presence of several newly-constructed meditation halls.

From the beginning, it was clear to me that this is a magical place. Aside from the overwhelming sense of calm, I experienced many "Plum Village Moments"; like walking across the gravel parking lot on a cloudless day when suddenly the leaves behind me were stirred by a wind funnel - and lifted, levitated, circling fast, slow, then fast again in a dance that lasted about a minute. Or coming across two snails in the moonlight, crossing my path on my way home from evening meditation.

There were also several "...oh" moments that I am still trying to process, like when Brother Pháp Linh, the young, French-British monk with the languid brown eyes explained to me that he also, does not consider himself a "Buddhist". A monk, yes, but not a part of a religion. Or when Sister Khôi Ngyhiêm placed in my care a package to mail to her brother in the United States - a letter and some boxes of cookies, three euros to help pay for the shipping and a hopeful smile on her face. I remembered the times in high school and college that I put together similar packages for my brother, shipping them to Maine or smuggling them into Germany with that same hopeful sisterly love.

I return to Paris a little bewildered but with renewed confidence in the following facts about myself: 1) that I am a city person. 2) that I will someday be a mother and that it is a capacity in which I will thrive. 3) that I really do prefer vegetarian and even vegan food. 4) that I miss New England and may eventually return there to live and work. And 5) that I am so incredibly young. It's a long and exciting path that I have ahead of me.

The Founding Fathers in Paris

This past Sunday, I participated in a Literary Walking Tour hosted by Lire et Partir, a "literary tourism" company. Led by three American expatriate women, the promenade entailed a three-hour stroll through the 6th and 7th arrondissements of Paris, with stops at sites of particular relevance to American revolutionary history.

We met at this statue of Thomas Jefferson, located along the quai near the bridge Pont Senghor, across the street from the Musée D'Orsay - and from another, less famous museum: the Palais de la Légion d'Honneur. This latter museum is housed in the Hôtel de Salm, evidently Jefferson's favorite building in Paris and the architectural inspiration for Monticello, the White House, and the main quad of the University of Virginia. The building was undergoing repairs, but here's a painting to give you an idea of what it looks like.

The statue of Jefferson shows him to be holding an old blueprint for Monticello - a sketch to which the actual building bears little resemblance (being much more akin to the Hôtel upon which the statue gazes) .

Other cool stops along the tour: a jardin across from the Institut de France which features a statue of Voltaire. The facial expression of this statue is priceless - just as nasty and mischievous as you can imagine the philosopher to have been in real life.

We also stopped at this building on Rue Jacob, at the heart of St. Germain des Prés (just steps away from the Ladurée shop with it's pastel-colored macaroons). Formerly the Hôtel d'York, it's the site of the signing of the Treaty of Paris of 1763, whereby England recognized the Independence of the United States of America.

On a personal note, I've finally solved the mystery of the Treaty of Paris four-star restaurant located on Main Street in Annapolis. I've often walked by the restaurant and puzzled over the Paris connection: here it is. After the Treaty was signed in Paris - at the Hôtel d'York - it needed to be brought back to the States to be ratified by the Continental Congress, which was at the time convening in Annapolis, at the Maryland State House. On January 14, 1964, enough delegates were finally present in 'naptown to reach a quorum. The treaty was ratified and sent to England, arriving just in time for the 6-months-from-initial-signing deadline that had been agreed upon in Paris.

While the Congress was convening in Annapolis, many delegates stayed at The Maryland Inn, the historic hotel which houses the previously mentioned four-star Treaty of Paris restaurant. According to Wikipedia, it was here that the signatories from Paris (Franklin, Adams, Jay) came to dine in celebration of the treaty's ratification. Mystery solved!

Photos and a confession

My collection of Paris photos is growing unwieldy, so I decided it was time to upload some of the better shots for your viewing pleasure. Captions may come with time. In other news, je quitte Paris next week for a retreat to Plum Village, a buddhist sahnga in the countryside near Bordeaux. Why? Because I need a break from the city. Yep, I need a break from the oh-so-enchanting, magical city of Paris. The vision most Americans have of Pah-ree is a bit too idyllic; in reality, it's a large, loud, international urban center, in which the daily struggle against beaurocracy, crowds, high prices, and sexually-aggressive Frenchmen can be exhausting and at times unpleasant. Which is to say that I've already developped something of a love-hate relationship with my new home. I often ask myself, "why did I want to live in Paris, again?". Some days it's fantastic, rewarding, everything I'd hope for... at other times it's frustrating or just plain ugly. I wish I could do a better job of conveying the other side, but it's usually not the sort of scenario where I can pull out my fancy digital camera and snap away. So here's the Paris that I can give you, the Paris that you're expecting to see...

La Maison

I think it's about time I do a post on where I live - so here it is, complete with slideshow and image captions. The apartment is a duplex in Butte aux Cailles (Quail Hill), a quaint little corner of Paris that is something of a throw-back to the 1920s/1930s. Although just a short walk from Place d'Italie, the area ressembles a French village more than an urban neighborhood. The Maison de Faubourg where we live is close to the intersection of Rue de la Butte aux Cailles and Rue des Cinq Diamants, the social center of this somewhat bo-bo (bohemian-bourgeois) area.

The house itself is cute, quirky, and very French. The slanted ceilings on the top floor are not too much of a hassle (I used to hit my head in the shower a lot), but it does have that hobbit house-feel. The chauffage is gas, and very effective, so even in winter it'll be cosy and warm. As they say, a picture's worth a thousand words - so here are some images to give you a better idea of what I'm talking about.

Food Porn and Miscellanea

I've had requests for food porn, so today I paid a visit to La Maison Berthillon and this time I brought my camera. The artisinale glacier located on Ile Saint-Louis is widely reputed to be the the best ice cream maker in the world (a claim that I'm not sure I support), but those in the know also recognize the salon as being one of the best places to get Tarte Tatin in Paris. My Irish friend has been missing her mom's apple pie, and been unimpressed by her encounters with French tarte aux pommes, so I brought her along as an expert judge.



We each ordered a slice of the tarte, with a boule of ice cream alongside. She stuck with classic Vanille, while I went for the Caramel au Beurre Salé, one of Berthillon's best-known parfums, a delicious if somewhat-overwhelming combination of sweet, salty, and creamy flavors.

The tarte was, essentially, perfect. Served cold, it is of a slightly mushy consistency which scoops easily into a spoon. The carmelized apple top is sticky with just a hint of bitterness from burnt sugar, and the body of the tarte transitions gradually from firm fruit to a sponge-like medium portion that gives way to a crisp pastry crust. As I dug into the tarte with my spoon, juices from the apples started to pool on the plate, intermingling with the melting ice cream. Delicious.




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And now for the miscellanea: The Strangest Thing I've Seen in Paris this Week
(Two weeks ago it was a two-foot-long, thick strand of hair that had been removed from a woman's ovarian cyst and preserved in formaldehyde since the end of the 19th century and is on display at the Musée Dupuytren)

This week, it's a tie! Between the witch who lives in my neighborhood and a table from the Museum at the School of Medicine. The witch is an elderly woman with a severe case of hyperhyphosis (her back is bent forward from the waist, so that her torso is always facing downwards as she shuffles along my street, small dog in tow). There are colored tatoos all across her face and hands, and she is constantly muttering incantations of some sort (as far I can tell, it's not French). I think she must live on Rue des Cinq Diamants, I see her walking with her dog most mornings as I come back from the market or head out for the day.

The other strange sight is this table which is on display at the Musée de la Médecine. Constructed by an Italian Doctor names Efisio Marini in 1866 as a gift for Napoleon III, it is a sort of mosaic composed of petrified ears, cross-sectioned vertebrae, lungs, liver, brain, gland tissue, blood and bile. Featured at the center is a petrified foot, plated in silver with an inscription by Marini dedicating his gift to the emporer. I can't find any information in english on who this Dr. Efisio Marini was or why he would have been so possessed as to create such a work or art, or how one even goes about petrifying blood, but if any of you speak italian, please read the following wikipedia entry and then fill me in.
http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Efisio_Marini

Sorry, but no photos. Not sure you would really want to see a picture, anyways.

Day at the Races

This past Sunday, my friend and I attended the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe at Longchamps Hippodrome. It's the most important horse race in France, taking place at a famous race course located on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne - a giant park on the Western outskirts of Paris known for being an evening hang-out for Prostitutes and drug dealers, and for having a romantic restaurant located in the middle of a man-made lake . The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe is a big society event, complete with champagne (13 euros per glass), Arabian princes, and ladies in fantastic hats (admission is gratuit for les femmes chapeautées).
Despite the rainy weather, the pain from my high heels, and the fact that none of the horses we bid on in any of the 8 races even placed... we had a great time. I'm going to try to link some photos through Picasa you so can see what it's about.

Getting Started...

Hello, Everyone!

Finally, here is the first-installation of the much-promised Blog on my adventures in Paris. I have already been living in Paris for about six weeks, but time goes by quickly when you're trying to get your bearings. I just settled into a new home, located in the picturesque "village" of Butte-aux-cailles (Quail Hill), just a short walk from Place d'Italie in the thirteenth arrondissement of Paris. I will be living with Gaël and Fabien, two 25-year-old mecs originally from Poitiers, in a loft/duplex located on Rue Des Cinq Diamants (photos to come). It's cute, sunny, very French, and most importantly, it's my new home (no silly sous-location here, I've actually cosigned the 9 month lease).
I have some catching-up to do - I'll try and make some posts this week on what I've done with my time thus far (investigated vegetarian restaurants, visited great museums, looked at a formaldehyde-preserved brains from the collections of neurologists Broca and Charcot). I'll try and make my posts brief but entertaining, my descriptions of food tantalizing for those of you craving food-porn, but I'll also be writing for myself, for reflection, so that I won't have spend a year abroad and have nothing to show for my time and experiences.