10 things I miss about America: Paris edition

1. the Dollar
It is the fact that, from my bank’s point of view, if something costs 40 dollars, it costs $40. Here, 40 is actually $55. That’s not what I call a Soldes, France, that’s what I call a scam.
Not only do you make things seem cheap when they’re actually retail price, but you give me coins that I am so willing to throw in the donation basket at church to later discover that I hadn’t donated 50 cents, but 4 euro. Seriously, 2 euro coins are completely unnecessary, and paper is much more efficient and light in my wallet than 20 euro in coins.
When I get home I will salute American dollars like they’re the flag.

Stairs leading up to the organ in Saint Sulpice. At least
the music can cover up the sound of your dizzy vomiting.

2. Straight Staircases
Everyone thinks swirly staircases are so pretty and romantic.

“When I grow up, I’m going to have them in my house.” 

I am guilty of saying this, but now that I actually do live with them, in my dorm and in every building I go to in this city, I forcibly retract that statement. They make you dizzy, winding and spinning as you ascend and descend, and since they rotate around one central point, each step has a smallest, inaccessible point, and a section that you can actually consider a stair. Naturally, everyone flocks to the outer stair that can actually be used and creates traffic.

Nothing is straight about Paris.

3. Jeans
For some reason, jeans never made it out of the wild west that is America. I don’t see why they are so opposed and what makes stockings and skirts so much more appealing on the daily basis. When we wear jeans in a group, we are basically emanating the Star Spangled Banner. I try to get myself to go the legging route, but sometimes nothing compares to buttoning yourself into some blue dyed cotton. I get the whole fashion thing, but jeans can be hot if worn correctly, too. They don’t know what they’re missing.

Wine is also an acceptable alternative to water.

4. Water
Pure, filtered, bottled water that tastes like nothing instead of everything. I don’t need minerals in my water. Water is supposed to be absolutely nothing. Sadly I have had to resort to drinking Coca Cola Light to quench my thirst when it gets to a point when the water starts resembling what I would imagine urine tastes like. Too crude? Sorry. Send me some Aquafina and I’ll be a little more content with hydration.

5. Dunkin' Donuts
America runs on Dunkin. Turns out, so do I. I do enjoy the coffee in a bowl that I have every morning with, what else, a baguette. But sometimes, on Fridays for instance when I don’t get offered my coffee bowl and baguette, I just want to go to Dunkin, get a medium iced vanilla latte and a boston crème donut. France squashed that REAL QUICK. Not like I am at all complaining about resorting to crepes, but it’s still the delectability of 89 cent donuts that makes me very homesick.

There are Starbucks, but that’s not even affordable in American dollars.

This would have looked so great in the Earlybird filter.
For right now, we have to look at it with Canon Autoflash.

6. my iPhone
I don’t even know why I would need to explain this, but let’s start with the simple fact that I haven’t made a phone call since I’ve been here. I have to wait until I get back to my laptop to check facebook, can’t update people on my whereabouts via clever tweets, when I’m lost I have to use subway maps to help me navigate home, and when I see really cool things that I have artsy visions about I can’t Instagram them. It is a horror.

However, being without it really gives me a sense of carefreeness. No need to worry about responding to texts that I really didn’t want to receive in the first place, or explaining to my parents I’ll be home in 10 minutes when I have absolutely no intention of coming home for another 2 hours. It’s freeing, but I really miss the little pop noise it makes when I slide to unlock. le sigh.

I'm pretty inclined to get on the De Vincenzo train.
Number 7 train, you are forever a mystery.

7. Phonics
America is a country that is very loud proud and concise. We say we are from UH-MER-I-CA because, we believe in a little thing called phonics. They don’t have that here. Think you’re going to Paris and French people will say, no no no, PAR-EE. Hmm.. pretty sure an S is actually included in that word, but we still get the idea.
When I am lucky enough to get on a metro train that tells us at which stop we are arriving, I am most unfortunate to not be able to decipher Coureuve by the announcement of “Qua-new.”
Oddly enough, the Parisian kids playing the board game Clue probably didn't have the trouble I did pronouncing Colonel Mustard. "Colonel" is one word which they pronounce every letter.

8. Loud People
You know, the ones on the subway who want the whole world to know how drunk they were last night. And the ones in the library blasting Drake through their headphones. You want to punch them in the face, but I guess that’s me missing the angry American in me that it provokes. Sometimes, silence is deafening. And when I want to say something and I just so happen to be on the metro, I don't want 25 pairs of french eyes grilling my jeans and dissecting my accent. This isn't church, it's transportation. Relax.

Obvz not interested, dude. Get your hand out of my photo.
The guy next to me posing... about as straight
as my hair when I take it out of a braid.

9. The Word NO
Shout out to the guy at the bar who wanted to intervene on my personal dance session. Stop trying to take my hand like we’re crossing the street. Especially since you look like my uncle.
Oh, and the guy who followed the group of 6 of us home just because someone said bonsoir. They take hello, but they don’t seem to take AU REVOIR. Bonsoir, you creep.
Sorry France, I understand you guys are a lot more committed than we are when it comes to unisex socialization, but realize Americans are not having it. We can talk to people and not want to marry them…


10. Deodorant
While they’re all too busy constricting their tracheas with scarves, we’re gasping for air due to the body odor. This, I really don’t understand. This is supposedly the city which invented perfume, but that must be for reasons contrary to what the rest of us think perfume is for. It is not to mask scents, but to enhance them. There is no masking BO without the help of a little Speed Stick. To be completely honest, maybe we wouldn’t have to "no" you guys so often if you were conscious of the effect you have on our nostrils. You could learn a thing or two from us Americans… we may be fat and stupid, we are at least not smelly.

and WE ARE BEAUTIFUL. No matter what you say...

City Built On Bones

I'm not particularly referring to the way in which everyone, regardless of all the baguettes, is skeletal.

I'm talking about the fact that they are so overcrowded that they literally just shoved their dead under ground.

We went today to The Catacombs.

This was an all around positive experience; I got to see human expiration, we bonded with some elderly Americans, and the money spent will be reimbursed by good ol' St Johnny.

Well, not my ham and cheese crepe, but everything else will.

So, upon retreating the metro at our designated stop, we see the sign to the Catacombs. I expected a scene of biblical similarities: a cave with a round rock pushed aside and blood stained robes on the floor.

(I'm so Catholic, when did this happen?)

Uh, no. It was a little building plopped on a busy city intersection. Since all these remains were such a health burden to the mortal neighbors in 1785, they were removed from their original place of rest in the Cimetiére des Saints-Innocents into these out-of-use limestone quarries.

100 more windy Parisian steps underground...and Behold! We encountered long narrow walkways with sporadic and recently installed lighting fixtures. That's all. We walked and walked up and down these corridors creating a scene suitable for the Mummy 4 (dad, don't buy it) until we finally got to a sign: "No Flash."

Um, it's dark down here and I've been taking pictures this entire time.

But now, I guess they didn't want to upset the spirits. We had reached the big finale of these crypts and were standing before hundreds of thousands of human bones stacked in strategic rows.

HUMAN. BONES.

I had to convince myself that I'd be possessed if I had touched one, or I would have been caressing so many skulls. My judgement was telling me for some reason that would be inappropriate.

Unlike the cemetery at Normandy, you actually did get that creeped out air being down there. It was dark and wet, just like any ancient tomb that had ever been depicted through Hollywood sets.  Down here, however, the best part about these bodies was that even though their pre-final resting place actually turned into a germ breeding ground that threatened the living with their own premature demise, these bones belonged to people who had mostly carried out their life in a normal fashion. They were just some Paris people, buried in a Paris grave, after a very Paris life. That was the whole beauty of it.

But that means they probably would enjoy a good haunting. Unfortunately, I didn't see any ghosts down there. Maybe the Italian souls in the Rome Catacombs will be a little more social.

On Not-So-Foreign Shores

We will now take a break from the continually anticipated Catholic message to provide a more patriotic one.

I woke up the earliest I had since I've been here to board a bus and travel 4 hours outside of Paris to the beach.

Omaha Beach.

When I say "the beach" I mean "The Beach." The beaches of Normandy, Omaha Beach, the site of American victory and tragedy.

By nightfall, June 6, 1944, Allied troops gained the necessary access to France to initiate "the greatest amphibious assault recorded in history."

I need no imagination or creativity whatsoever to describe how symbolic and uplifting this day was. We had been seeing rain in Paris for a week straight, and expected nothing less when traveling outside of the city limits. We were pleasantly surprised with sunny skies and comfortable weather. We dismounted the hill onto the beach with the sun still welcoming us. The waves were like those you hear in the movies when they're trying to create a sense of calmness; I never heard something so peaceful.

As soon as I stomped my trendy combat boots onto the sand, the soft waves turned into crashes on the shore line. The sun hid behind clouds as I stood where thousands of Americans took a step toward the enemy.

The path leading to the memorial.

After spending a few minutes on the beach, we began our climb back up the hill accompanied by a light drizzle that turned into a downpour. When we looked up, we could see the single cloud responsible. After a last look at the wet sand below, we walked towards the real attraction.

The cemetery. It's almost an insult to address it so casually and darkly. When people envision cemeteries, they envision tall angels and stone black headstones with elaborate carvings. At Normandy, you see rows that seem to extend for miles of white crosses and sporadic Stars of David. Whichever corner of the land you stand, they are in systematic rows.

As soon as I stood before the resting place of millions of men, the rain stopped. Like some sort of miracle, like they were so happy to have Americans come and visit them even though they are so far from what we all call home.

I walked off by myself. I can't even say I have a relative in there. I can't even say I've heard first hand accounts of this moment in history. I just knew I was standing among it. It was tragic and it was so beautiful. The crosses were so graceful and pleasant. I read through as many names as I possibly could by walking by. If I read one row and not the row behind it, I felt almost guilty.

Named and numbered. Each lost is counted.

I cried. I actually cried. The last time I cried was saying goodbye to my life at home, knowing full well that I would return to it. I think that was the problem. All of the people who had these ivory crosses assigned to them never made it home. When they said goodbye to their mothers, to their sisters, to their girlfriends, they had at least an inkling that there would be no jubilant reunion. The idea of being any of those men, within years of my current age when they met death, is so humbling. If they were lucky enough to have their last letter sent home, that was their last chance to send their love; the last of their love was devoted to the country.

Being in France really has given me a sense of my own identity. For all of us at home, someone asks what we are and we provide a list of places in which we've never been to, taking on an identity we hadn't assumed.

to the Republic, for which it stands

"Oh, I'm Italian." "Oh, I'm Puerto Rican."


It's true, the "of [insert nationality] decent" is implied by saying this. We have assumed the identities of mixed blood.

But being in Paris and seeing French flags on the flag poles creates some kind of transition into saying "I'm American," with pride and knowing it's true.

Seeing the stars and stripes at the cemetery today felt so much different than any other time I've pledged to it. I was so proud to know that everything my country was built on was on display on foreign soil, humbly, for everyone to know. That "everyone" includes me, who took it for such granted when I was home.

I think I can safely say this was my favorite historical site to have ever visited. It isn't too elaborate or flashy or crowded. It gives off the exact message it is intended to and is a symbol of everything from friendship and peace to grief and loss. It is nonetheless triumphant. It is the entire embodiment of devoted Americans and everything for which we stand.

You Can't Run From God

Being in France, I just can't get enough of religion.

Or the debates that come with it in class, or the opportunities to pray in any of the various churches, and so on.

Yesterday on the Sabbath, as promised, I got out of bed before 10 o'clock just to go listen to a whole lot of french intended to praise God in a pop-culturally noted church. The very church in which the scary albino man in DaVinci Code whipped himself is the one in which I attended mass.

Strangely enough I found it incredibly less horrifying than Notre Dame.

St. Sulpice.

Its exterior architecture was very similar to that of Notre Dame's though undoubtedly less intricate. It has the two very identifiable towers like Notre Dame, yet the church itself is slightly smaller. There's no denying this cathedral is also quite massive compared to average churches we are used to in the States.

I guess I should mention "this place" is The Cathedral of Saint Sulpice. Much less recognized, but nonetheless historical. It is another church built during Louis XIV's reign.


Man, did he get around...

So anyway, among one of its largest claims to fame is the massive organ that it is home to; you can literally walk inside of it.

The interesting thing I found about this organ is the fact that, though it is absolutely immense, it plays much more calming, soothing, spiritual music than that of the mean mama in Notre Dame. In this case, the organ is the savage beast who purrs rather than growls.

But that's not where the intrigue stops!

Among the parishioners, I think about more than 85% were grandparents, at least once so far. The only reason this was so shocking was because there was some sort of art exhibition taking place inside the church that was borderline sacrilegious.

In my Catholic education, this is intolerable.
I guess in the age of political proprieties and
improprieties, you can't knock a black faced Mary.

I'm talking a sort defamation  of statues of the Virgin Mother not so far off from the way the Virgin Mary was vandalized in The Exorcist.

I mean that in the most artistically speaking point of view I could provide... I'm not as well versed in art as I am in movies, so I don't really want to tie this church in with the scariest movie all time, I'm just saying... I've never seen something like this before.

So mass was normal. French and whatnot.

After mass, we had the opportunity to tour the massive organ. More swirly stairs, like literally every building in Paris, lead up to the choir loft, the organ, and a balcony view of the entire church.

Very beautiful, very long, very cold. Typical Gothic church (not to imply typical in this sense is synonymous with unexceptional), within walking distance of my dorm. It still shocks me that such historical structures are utilized modernly today just as they were in the 18th century.

In New York, this many churches would have been knocked down for apartment complexes and mosques. From an American point of view, there's simply an excess of Catholicism in France.

To support this claim, I present another very famous church in France, perched atop the highest point of the city in Montmarte. This town, translated into English, is literally Martyr's Mountain.

Now there's a story!

As the legend goes, the very ballsy St. Denis traveled with Catholic preachings from Rome into the Pagan Paris. Upsetting those unwilling to waver under the pressure of Catholicism, his head was chopped off.

A little beheading is never enough to stop a Catholic on a mission! He picked up his head, dusted it off, and let it preach the word of God for another 10 kilometers.

Now, I know it's easy to believe he literally carried his own head, but let's use ours that are still attached to our shoulders; this is a story. It proves that the religion is not so easily defeated. And if you want to believe it, the head is still talking today!

I have pictures looking up Mount Olympus, but it's too pretty
to not look at it up close and personal. La Basilique du Sacre Coeur.

They erected a church atop this Montmarte, of immaculately white stone and that is constantly in session. The word of God is still getting out there for those who will listen to it. That's at least my own way of reading between these tightly condensed Catholic lines.

This is my favorite church in Paris so far. Maybe because I sweat my ass off and had to carry it in my hands up this gigantic hill and worked off a week's worth of baguettes. Or it's because it is just gorgeous.

Surprisingly enough, this isn't St. Denis' own cathedral though. I don't really know why the poor guy couldn't get such a top spot in the city after literally being a beheaded martyr. But he does have a cathedral in the northern part of the city (which I'm praying we get to go to) which is appropriately home to monuments of some of his other infamously beheaded counterparts: King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

Let Them Eat Cake

That's pretty much what St. John's said by not giving us meals Friday through Sunday.

I've chosen the less caloric route of nutella and rice cakes. After going through an entire jar in three days, I also applied a very American skill: buying generic.

Today was a special occasion in which we were made an American breakfast before departing for the royal chateu of Versailles.

There's King Louis on his high horse, being King at 5 and all.

As an American, when I think chateu I think a little villa in the country side. In the case of Louis XIV's Versailles, this is a grosssss understatement. It is a palace only suitable for him as the Sun God, constructed of gold.

I wasn't interested in Louis XIV as much as Louis XVI. You know, married to the most notable French diva in history, Marie Antoinette.

We heard lots of history about this palace being used as the royal court and all the good stuff, but when we got to Marie Antoinette's room, I didn't care about parliamentary or treaties.

Sofia Coppola, girl, you nailed it.

The room in the movie was identical to the one that exists in Versailles. It was overwhelmingly elaborate and her monogram is the center of the canopied bed, with a bust of her is seated on a fire place on the left facing a portrait of her and her children on the opposite wall.

She was literally a queen, and this room is nothing short of that.

JUST LOOK AT IT!

I haven't been so awed by their culture since my first french fry. But this! This just makes me want to eat cake in nothing but shoes.

Too much? Antoine would support me.



Today is actually the day after I went to Versailles. Last night was my first real night on the town, so I had no time to try to talk about the palace. But I now can discuss that and bars.

Well, more the people in them.

First of all, the Americans who say that the French are mean and hate us need to be presented with this question: Have you ever been to France? Because I find them so helpful and nice and tolerant of catastrophic attempts at french accents. New Yorkers hate New Yorkers much more than the French hate Americans. How could they hate us when they play all of our music in their bars?

I know you're really not supposed to for conflict avoidance, but we made it very well known that we are American.

I guess Parisians don't take pictures with their friends when they go out? They were really getting a kick out of our photo shoot.

So when we had enough of belting out It's Raining Men in one bar, we searched for another more lively one.

AND OH, DID WE FIND IT.

Danced to more American music, got complimentary drinks (roofie free!), helped a drunken Parisian off the floor (yeah, they're sloppy, too), and watched a pony-tailed man continually flaunt his ability to do a complete back bend on the dance floor.

All that took until 6 o'clock in the morning.

So today, we are going to the cemetery which is the final resting place of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde since we pretty much feel like jumping into our own graves.

and on the 7th day

St. John's brought us to the Louvre!

And I wrote a whole post about it and it got deleted............

Da Vinci Code anyone?

I guess what happens in the Louvre stays in the Louvre. They do not want their inner secrets out of the bag. You may be wondering, "is Mary Magdalen really under the pyramid?"

The truth of the matter is, I haven't the slightest idea.

In all honesty, we went into the trip as a group. First stupid idea. A bunch of Americans on a French metro? The product is annoyed French people and loud obnoxious confusion from us. I literally saw an old French woman nodding toward us until her friend actually acknowledged that we were being pointed out. THANKS. I know I'm American, I'm trying to blend in, please excuse my rowdy counterparts who don't know how to hold their liquor nor hold their composure around "foreigners" in their native land.

I digress.

Let me discuss the Louvre before I discuss Parisian sangria.

Just imagine this is your backyard.

LE LOUVRE: A palace turned museum of art in which people depict historical scenes magnificently as if they were there, though they were not.

That is the full definition.

I learned a lot about the paintings inside the Louvre, specifically those of David.

DAH-VEED, not Dave-id.

A lot of it goes back to the time in which art was expected to depict powerful people in monumental moments and the art was meant to be realistic. You were supposed to be able to look at it and feel as thought you were incorporated into. And so you can... The work is incredible. Detailed. Life size.

After my well-versed professor completed our exploration of 19th century paintings, I went off to explore Le Louvre in my own way. Yes, he continued to explain the way in which the light and color contrasted or worked in unison to create a certain blah blah blah....

I took it upon myself to decide which portions of the room-sized paintings I found most interesting.

Without further adieu (on some French shit...) I present thou with 

Le Louvre du De Vincenzo!

I don't know why I became instantly obsessed with this sculpture, but it is completely apparent that I am not the only one.

Gerard Butler circa 2007 or illustration by David circa 1814: Leonidas is still a magnifique piece of man meat.

In the complete painting, a son's conspiring ways has led him to be killed,
  by his own father's betrayal. What a jerk. The painting comes together by the
grieving mother and unbearably shattered wife in the corner.
This is what I refer to as the beautiful breakdown.

In this we have a clear depiction of a woman demanding "Guys, just stop," where the children show
signs of imitating their fathers, setting the scene for a second, vengeful saga.

At a closer look, we see more intimacy through a woman imploring her husband to
chill the f*** out for the sake of their child.

I also found it more intriguing to watch how others identify with the paintings
rather than just rely on myself to find the true meaning behind them.

The true meaning I saw through this one, however, was that it was painted for Avery Mertz.
Your two favorite things girl: a cat and wine.

And finally: there she is!

Though I was forewarned of disappointment, something about standing here still creates an air of incredulity.

I'm not done with you, Louvre. I just got so hungry that I had to go back to campus to eat dinner. But within a week's time, I'll be back and my followers will be waiting with baited breath for more paintings.

January Sales

Basically, it's Black Friday in Paris.

For the entire month.

I'm sure these would be very cliche here,
but I'm adding them to my list of "to get my hands on."

St. John's must have known this when they put me in this rotation. Like I mentioned on Day One, the first word I learned was "soldes." It is everywhere on every window and so welcoming!

At Champs-Elysees the other day, we couldn't help but go into H&M. Dresses for 7 euro? Unreal. In my excitement, I bought a pair of very Parisian looking pants that I had been dreaming of in the wrong size! My dream obviously turned into a nightmare.

OHH THE DRAMA.

So, Korrie and I, after my 10-12 and before my 3o'clock class, ventured to Rue de Rennes, pretty much the SoHo of our location, to find that branch of H&M to exchange them.

We never made it.

I was in and out of stores like I was patrolling the street, and had to be back on campus by 2 o'clock. 40 euro later, I had a very sedating session of retail therapy.

TRENDS FROM PARIS THAT YOU MAY SHOULD BE INTERESTED IN SCOOPING UP:
a fur scarf. I'm shopping around for the best priced one, but I vow to wrap my neck in one.
leather pants. If you know my obsession with leather, you've grasped how exciting this is that it's so socially accepted and expected to have them. Get with it America, they're not tacky.
any type of pants that are not denim. 'nuff said.
thick-rimmed glasses. Perfect eye sight? Who cares? These facial accessories look good on anyone! Yeah, I know we've known this for a while in the states, but round is up and coming, ditch the square. Just sayin'.
lace-up boots. Flats? Heels? Doesn't matter. These are my personal fave.

Even this young, he knows
he looks good and is working it.

Basically, they dress to impress from the moment they pop out of the womb until they turn into dust. And I do not joke; parents may decide what it is to dress their kids in, but they rock the hell out of it. And the old dudes too! I saw a man today with a completely coordinated ensemble, from his corduroys to his Kangol cap.

Even the little kids are decked out in the trendiest shoes and matching skirts completely with scarves and hats.

On a cultural note, when you walk into a store, you say "Bonjour." They take their shopping very seriously and their store is like their home in which you are a guest.

Show me the sales and I'll call you my queen! That's no problem!

If you think New York knows about fashion, you've seen nothing. Paris is vastly underrated for their couture. It is literally part of their culture. Baseball caps are non existent and if you're wearing sweatpants it's only because you're working at Adidas.

I have a completely different view on what "dress down" is now. Dad, ready the garbage bags for all of my t-shirts. They are simply unacceptable.

Bon appétit

I guess I'm starting to learn some français. It dawned on my yesterday that Bonjour is literally "good day."

Genius, I know.

So aside from gradually becoming accustomed to the language, I'm working with the food.

Actually, working with is a vast understatement. If you know me at all, you know I eat anything at all and usually enjoy it.

For instance: Last night at dinner, in our cafeteria no less, we had the choice between fish and sheep. Considering how starving I was, having eaten nothing all day but peanut butter crackers I had stashed since the flight and a french pastry which was about as many calories as a spoonful of ice cream, I had initially said to myself "I'm getting the fish." My desperate need to eat implored me to choose the option I knew would definitely satisfy. Then my conscience kicked in and reminded me that I'd lie awake all night wondering what it tastes like and yelling at myself for kittying out.

So I ate the little sheep. And it was good and I was completely satisfied and proud that I'd get to tell my dad of my culinary adventure.

Snails in the near future!

They actually sell them in the super market in little refrigerated packets! It was very tempting, but I figured my first shelled slug experience should be a little more dignified. Like, prepared from a restaurant. I skipped it and settled on the decision to live on rice cakes and Nutella for lunch for as long as I can. (Aren't you proud, Jonathan!?)

All in all, I'm having a wonderful eating experience and can't wait to shove all their delicacies down my throat. Just need to be conscious of all those white bread baguettes. I guess I'll have to save some carbs by not dipping it into my coffee bowl for breakfast (and that is completely not an exaggeration.)

Jour Quatre

This time change is really throwing me off. I don't know how people come and spend just a week or two here. It's going to take me that long to adjust.

But I'm also up and at 'em every single day. WHAT A DAY TODAY WAS.

Classes started. ver.

Imagine all the round-abouts in Jersey
had one of these smacked in the middle.

But we went on a little school excursion to the Arc De Triomphe. For those of you poorly versed in the translation of romance languages that means Arch of Triumph. Constructed by my manz Napoleon, it's one hell of an archway. Another of those things that's super elaborate. Tons of names of those who fought, tons of intricate details.

From street level, it's one thing. But (little did I know) you can go up it! Thanks to the Catholic-Vincentianism of St. John's we were provided access. Probably 12,000 spiral stairs and a day's worth of calories later, we were at the top: a windowless hall with a brief history, a statue, and a gift shop. I was nonetheless intrigued by my presence inside this historical freaking thing.

When you get to the museum you're like, "oh hey cool. there's one statue in here and I some recently added lavatories in case you need to puke from the hike up." BUT WAIT! For just a small fee of two short flights you're out in the sunlight, actually on top of it, looking over Paris.

Not a bad view to have right before you're gonna
pass out. A little to the right is the Eiffel Tower, but I figured
everyone pretty much knows what that looks like at this point.

I ran up it like a champ. I always overestimate my fearlessness. My legs were jell-o, but the view of the entire city from one point was awesome; The Eiffel Tower in one direction, a full view of Champs-Élysées in the other, and all of Paris and its inhabitants in between.

 The best part was looking over the Champs-Élysées (pronouned le shawz el ee zee, I guess) where all the MAJOR fashion headquarters are, considering it was once the palace driveway. Now it just leads to the fabulous Place de la Concord where Marie-Antoinette, Louis XVI, and somewhere between 1 and 2.5 thousand others during the French Revolution were beheaded. Very prestigious stuff.

I had to hold Korrie's hand on the way down and I refused to look anywhere but the point in which the wall met the stairs. When I got to the street I felt like I was worthy enough to have my name carved into the Arch's walls. I didn't throw up, that was quite a triomphe.

A Napoleon Complex with a fear of heights... I should get over that.

What in this traditional Eiffel Tower photo does not belong,
other than the partially opened shutter...

I'm gonna pull a Quentin Tarantino (mainly due to final remnants of jet lag) and bring up our view of the Eiffel Tower before the Arch! Yes, I know, so much Eiffel Tower talk. This was a good one though.

Unfortunately, I wasn't assaulted by a bum again. Someone was robbed though!

LOLOLOL. Whoever this person was was more of a foreign idiot than all of us put together. There was one dude, just one, selling two Eiffel Tower models. Just two. If that's not sketchy in itself I'm not quite sure what is. I'd rather purchase my corny memorabilia from a store that had clearly paid to have their merchandise.

As we were just casually being tourists and posing for pictures, we see baby Eiffel Towers fly into the air as their previous bearer rockets down the street... with someone's money.


I think it's a good thing I went to church on Sunday or that could have easily been me robbed by a crook.  Or stabbed by a bum.


The Lord is my shepherd, there is no French trinket I shall want.

Unless of course the trinket was made by Louis V though, that's a different story ;)

That is definitely what Heaven looks like.
Louis Vuitton on Champs-Élysées

Jour Trois: Loud Bells and Bright Lights

If I have to write the title in French to get Mr. Ellison to read this, I will submit!

So on my first Sabbath in Europe, I put on black pants and a sweater for church. I think it was probably the first time in my entire life. This is not just church; this is Notre Dame.

Instead of getting on the train right outside of our dorm, we walked... somewhere. It's pretty much the equivalent of walking to get to 59th-Lexington when the 53rd-Lex is across the street. Annoying.

Besides the random decision of global warming to take a vacation to some other planet, the walk was comfortable. The Metro is basically what we all expected- a train station. Except for the fact that the train stops for a maximum of 4 seconds before heedlessly closing the doors on your limbs or friends that are still on the platform. As I was one of the group trying to squeeze myself through the door that doubles as a guillotine, I noticed there were a cluster of seats all empty, yet all Parisians stand. Is that a joke? New Yorkers strike empty seats like it's free first class. No, Parisians would rather aching high-heeled feet and destruction of personal space.

You never know! These could have been
human sacrifices for aesthetic value.

We made it though, to (say it with me...) Notre Dame. You don't realize until you're up close and personal with it that the detail is absolutely astonishing. It's like corpses are paper mâchéd and molded onto the building. Every arch, every brick, every pillar had such attention paid to it that I don't know how the sculptors ever had time to attend church on their own time. And that's just the outside!

Walking in, I expected to feel much like I have when entering St. Patrick's: at peace and appreciative of the aesthetics. Oh My Godsh was I wrong...

The organ didn't sound like it was being played by angels but more like it was being played by the damned. It was loud and ominous. Imagine the music the Phantom plays in Phantom of the Opera... played by Wednesday Addams on Halloween to raise her dead relatives. That's kind of how it sounded.

Instead of feeling at ease and at peace to be with Our Father, I felt immediately that I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness for everything I've ever done just so I could be worthy of being there and hope to go to Heaven. Michael Corleone would feel guilty in this place (pre-Fredo.) It was super intense. And mass hadn't even begun.

When it did, I knew because amid the foggy incense emerging from a deep corner of the cathedral were ghost-like alter servers and priests in long blue robes walking in a routine military march. I guess it wouldn't have been so intimidating if the entire church didn't have an air of desolation. But since I felt like I was going to be struck down, it was creepy.

Being in such a gothic church, I assumed the mass would be said in Latin. Nah, it was French.

Can you feel the chills tonight?

Since I couldn't understand a word of it, except of course "Samuel" which was repeated a hundred times in the Liturgy (Cool story, bro), I was left with a lot of time to examine the church on the inside. It matched the creepiness of the music; the chandeliers haven't been dusted in centuries, there was no place to genuflect, nor pews! We sat in wooden chairs that strategically connected to one another. I feel like there may have been pews at one point, but so many [insert profane adjective] people attend it now that they need to max out the occupancy. You know Catholics...

Truly though, the place was beautiful. And I promise to God, since he doesn't want me to swear, that I'll try my very best to go church every weekend. I don't want to end up an alter server in the after life.

So anyway, it was a normal mass. In French. When we left the cathedral to the music that warned me to never commit a sin again, I was so thankful to see the sunlight. The cold, not so much.

School paid for us to get crêpes (Thanks St. John's!). A group of us went to some fancy schmancy restaurant to get 9 euro crêpes... and french fries. They definitely knew we were American. They made us feel quite at home by sticking a flag in a burger.

We got back on the "metro" to get home, made plans all together to go the Eiffel Tower... naturally me and Korrie slept through our planned departure time. Surprise...

So we took it upon ourselves to not waste another day without seeing it. We bundled up for a decently far walk. Oh, and took no directions. HOO RAH. We just let the oscillating spotlights guide us, and tried as hard as we could to find streets that actually just went straight...not an easy feat in Paris.

We followed Boulevard Invalides until Av de Villars. Easy enough. I figured we could just walk straight up until the tower, and when we hit that street going back we'd know to turn. So I got so excited and started zig-zagging any which way just to get to the light. By the time we were close enough to take a straight shot, it was 8'oclock on the dot; it sparkles every hour on the hour.

Look closely at the top right
and you can see the beckoning spot light.

The thing is massive. You don't even feel like an ant under it, you feel like a grain of rice. Huge! But seriously, so pretty. Especially with its lights and periodic glittering.

Oh, and lots of English speakers all around.

Not even realizing it was right next to la Seine, we took a stroll down by the water before heading back.

Or... not heading back.

We headed somewhere, hoping that it was back. In reality, we were completely lost. Thanks to our metropolitan home campus, we had acquired enough street smarts to find our way.

I was even mistaken for a Parisian, imagine that! In the words of STJ alumnus J. Cole "I run the town when I ain't even from there." BONSOIR, BITCHES.

But let me no get too confident. Because not all cities are the same. You see, the city I'm used to had trained me to ignore anyone who shouts at you on the street, especially in a different language. I applied these rules to an incoming bum and instead of him getting the hint and moving on he straight checked me (For my readers over the age of 30, that means pummeled into.) I experienced the scariest moment of my life in Paris! YAY!

Boy, I really hope Nicole got tired of reading before getting to this part...

You know when something happens and you have a split second to make a decision? Well I was torn between A. running, B. screaming for the girl at the nearby ATM to call the Police, or C. fighting this man off.

I guess I pretty much picked C, but didn't really have to throw any fists. I kind of just juked him out (definition, in context: pretending to move one direction before very quickly turning the other). I then planned on running until I noticed he had forgotten I existed. So then I just laughed my fleeting moment of anxiety off. And got more lost.

Someone really needs to tell me why the streets
were modeled after the Big Dipper.

However! Considering I just described this whole ordeal means that I did not get stabbed and butchered in the sewers of Paris and that we did safely find our way back to Rue De Sevrés!

All is well that ends well. In Paris.

Day Deux

French is so hard. I find myself adding a Spanish accent to everything I try to say. It sounds like Swahili when I do.

I've pretty much mastered bonjour, merci, and baguette. We get a lot of baguettes.

We took an hour walk past all of the expensive stores with all the pretty things that I don't have the money or suite case room to buy headed towards "the River." This river is actually a pretty big deal, being the Seine and all. All (well, I guess most) of the major Parisian monuments are along its bank.

Our tour guide spoke French, obvz, then translated to English. Still, I hardly knew what she was saying. I sat next to honestly the cutest little old man. He had with him his stuck up little old wife and their prissy little granddaughter. I figured my English enthusiasm disinterested him so I just blocked out the incomprehensible tour guide and let myself get into my own world while visually studying as much of the architecture I could (Thank God I'm taking that class!)

I didn't even need the tour guide to identify Notre Dame. I also didn't find it on my own. The little old man that I was so quick to deem cynical tapped me, pointed to it and said in the harshest French accent Notre Dame.

ahh... Notre Dame.

oh my god, it was so precious. So I did my stupid "I'm-so-excited-you-talked-to-me" smile and said "beautiful!" There I go again, saying random English words that no one understands. He was still all smiles though, fired off some French to which I nodded and looked again at the church.

"Tre magnifique!" I said, pretending like I knew something. He replied with more excited French and then peered off again. I was still looking, but knew that we had probably exhausted the extent of any possible conversation. Then I heard him sigh "ahh, Notre Dame." Stop. It was the most adorable thing in the world. This guy who was most likely as familiar with Paris as my dad is with Brooklyn was completely breathless at the sight of this cathedral. I'm so glad I had no idea what else he was saying or could have possibly said to me. I'm sure he had some sort of back story, but the mystery was so much more intriguing to me. I marveled more at him marveling than I did at the cathedral myself.

We went up the river and turned back around to go to the other half of the city (we kind of set sail smack in the middle.) The best part about that is I got to hear little ol' Frenchy whisper Notre Dame again. Got me every time...

So there we were, tugging down the Siene with an inaudible tour guide, looking at beautiful buildings with mysterious inner workings.

I heard something about an expensive restaurant from the microphone. Cool whatever.

"Up there, with the glass." Frenchy's son was throwing me a bone! He could speak English and knew what the hell he was talking about.

Ohhh, now I'm getting some type of an experience. He shot off the name in flowy French and I nodded. Very nice, I suppose...

TUG TUG TUG DOWN THE SIENE.

More big beautiful buildings that Frenchy Jr. saw me gawking at... "That is the [something French]."

"Oh, it was a palace?" I asked assuming since it was so damn elaborate. I was right! Take that St. John's, I am learning something and it ain't from you!

The Conciergerie. At least M.A. was in a palace
 when they told her that her head was gonna roll.

He told me, in very broken English that it's a museum but WAS a palace. Score for me. But between being converted it was a jail that held Marie Antoinette. Naturally, I let out a very American "that's my girl!" and snapped away. Honestly though, how cool? Marie Antoinette was scheduled for a date with the guillotine at this very edifice. I didn't even get that excited about the Declaration of Independence. But Marie Antoinette? That's cake I want a slice of, no matter how many calories.


I've still yet to venture to the Eiffel Tower but the little cruise gave me such a view that I now can't wait to get stand right under it. As we got closer, it got more and more massive. I mean, there's a little Eiffel Tower you can see from the Van Wyck, but from the Siene, the Eiffel Tower is something else.

The Eiffel Tower, and to the right
the entrance to the the Bridge of King Louis III.
Lil' Ol Frenchy told me about that one too.<3

The bit of information I did pick up from the tour guide was that people of the time when it was built didn't like it. I don't know why, but they didn't. That was a lot of information to get from that choppy french microphone. In all honesty, I think I'd be one of those people. I think, if the Eiffel Tower were built in New York, all New Yorkers would be that way. It doesn't take much imagination.

"Why the hell are the building that right on the East River? To add more train stops and make me late to work 3 instead of 2 times a week?"

YOU CAN HEAR IT TOO! I KNOW IT.

And now, this big scaffolding-like tower is one of the most recognizable landmarks in all the world. Funny how people are; their initial reactions to things and the way that gradually changes.
Kind of like my experience with Little Ol' Frenchy. I'm gonna miss him...

Alright... the flight

I didn't really want to talk about the flight, but then Avery sent me this awesome article about Paris and New York comparisons and one particular image begged me to...
Pretty much sums it up! I left a very rainy JFK, waved goodbye to my beautiful New York, and went to Paris.

Oh, but made a four hour pit stop in Miami. THANKS AMERICAN AIRLINES. There wasn't much time to run around JFK, but there was plenty of time to explore the four terminals of Miami Int'l. It's an airport, there are restaurants. Cool.

But I got my first little taste of France when the girl who sat behind me asked the person next to her to switch with a friend and he declined, perplexed by what she was trying to say in her native English tongue on her native American soil.

Well, whatever.

So I spent 8 hours taking periodic 10 minute naps with 90 minute intervals of re situating and scrolling through playlists. I did, however, spend about two hours on my kindle with A Tale Of Two Cities. Nothing like the French Revolution on a touch screen.

Looking over Paris was not what I expected. When you land in New York you see lots of lights, lots of buildings, highways, etc. So naturally, I assumed Paris, a city comparable in hype, to appear the same. Wrong. It was green... lots and lots of open fielded, green (sure you would appreciate that Jonathan.)
Also! No view of the Eiffel Tower! Not from an American Charles De Gaulle bound flight, anyway.

So we landed and as soon as I saw the first French exit sign the culture shock began stabbing at me. I also was prepared to fight with customs to stamp my passport, as Louis told me they'd be hesitant to. NOPE, he stamped his french stamp on my American Passport and I said "thank you." Yeah, stupid me speaking English to a French official.

Waited for luggage, blah blah blah.

The drive from CDG to the campus was much more enjoyable. You can look at 1,000 pictures a day of French architecture and monuments. When you're here, it's like they never happened. It's so absolutely mind blowing and breath taking to see them in person and see people living life around them.

...not to mention that big pointy guy!

And after this city boat tour I'm about to depart for, I'm sure I'll have more awe-inspired descriptions.

Day one: Paris

I jet-setted to Europe with two journals in which I was assigned to log my daily life, my experiences, my impressions, and my sense of how the culture of this continent works/differs from my beloved Land of the Free. Still, during my very first Parisian shower (which certainly made me miss my not-so-humble-after-all Queens dorm room) I realized two hand written journals is not enough. I have quite a handful of people (I assume you're one if you're reading this!) who want updates every day. What better way in the age of technology than a bloody blog!

So here I am. Still wringing the french water from my hair, letting everyone know that 1. I am alive and well, 2. I am already having a wonderful time, and perhaps, most importantly 3. that even in the hustle and bustle and excitement of being in a fresh new land with a fresh passport, there's no place like America.

Having named three topics I want to discuss, I want to be sure to avoid structuring this like a 5 paragraph essay. That's not what anyone wants to read. Let me veer away from my lengthy introduction and get down to business...

HOLY SHIT. I never felt more out of place in my life. And even though I can feel the stares penetrating my suspicious Americanized grip on my bag, it's kind of fun. I've always been the one rolling my eyes at the idiot on the train who can't decipher an E from an F, or who want to marvel at the Statue of Liberty or Empire State Building.

Now, I look at the Eiffel tower just 'meters' from my campus and think to myself... DAMN. That thing is big and sparkly and I'm standing in front of it. I imagine it's somewhat like crossing over into Nirvana.

French. The language that is... Spanish, I can understand. Italian, I can figure out. FRENCH is other worldly. Already though, just simply in the bus ride from the airport to the campus, I learned so many words. Perhaps the most important: Soldes translates to SALE. gimme gimme gimme.

A baguette is a baguette is a baguette. UNLESS OF COURSE you get one here. As a connoisseur of thinly sliced Boar's Head ham, I was greatly impressed by my first European sandwich. Delicious leanham that was probably carved from a pig bathing in a puddle of gold on an entire baguette with shredded cheese and BUTTER. You understand correctly; swap that nasty stinky mayo I always have to request to be withheld with BUTTER and I found myself a god of ham sandwiches. (Don't worry Krystal, I'll cut back in time to look cute for the wedding.)

Speaking of God, the churches... well. Since I haven't been in them, I'll just save that for when I can do justice to a description.

But, in the spirit of the blood of Christ, 24 cl. of red wine is going to be sweating from my pores on the hike up that Eiffel Tower in the very near future.

Yeah, it's all very exciting. But I really love the hateful glares. I know they wanna be American like me.

Oh, and the flight sucked. I don't think any details of 8 hour agita need to waste any portion of the ether.