Thanksgiving and the beginning of the end

Going all out in all respects.

Thanksgiving was: deboned seasoned turkey breasts, green bean casserole, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes seasoned with cumin, ginger, and cayenne pepper (my own concoction), Carmen’s grandmother’s Mexican stuffing, cranberry relish, cornbread AND baguettes.

Enough for 25 people and then some. Dessert: pumpkin pie, apple pie, chocolate-chunk pecan pie, a fruit tart, and my chocolate cheesecake brownies that took two days to make since the recipe did not fare well in French ovens.

I think that’s everything. We’re all still digesting.

Impromptu guests and accidental drunken electricity outage. Garret’s family came, and I made a speech on the family we had managed to create from our motley crew overseas.

However, thankfully, I don’t think I used the words motley crew.

Yesterday we had to wake up early to go to the Musée Carnevalet, which contains the history of France on 4 floors, of which we only got to see a few rooms. Our guide was bumbling and didn’t tell us anything we hadn’t learned already. A little sillly, but brief.

Afterwards I went with Alex and Sara, and Paul and Katie (woooo, fifth wheel!), to a pizza place called the Pink Flamingo. There was a dog who whined and jumped up on our seat and a pizza with pineapple and bacon called L’Obama. I myself opted for the spicy carrot ginger soup, which cured my oncoming head cold within the first two spoonfulls. “Le Basquiat” was topped with Gorgonzola, figs, and strips of ham. Darn good pizza.

It’s also right across from the Picasso Museum, so I headed in there, not at all expecting to find such a beautiful interior. The building itself is like a cubist maze, a chronological approach to Picasso’s work and his inspirations. There’s more sculpture than you would think, and it definitely expands one’s conception of “Picasso.” Narrow windows hint at what’s in upcoming rooms, and ramps and staircases lead you there; the walls are made of a light-colored stone, and the high ceilings complete this delightfully disorienting journey.

Leaving the museum, I think I went in the wrong direction, but happily ended up in the midst of a mile long antiques market. The horribly overpriced junk was still fun to look at: they had everything from tacky jewelry and lamps, to animal skulls and a small airplane.

The conversation group of the other half of my French class was going to a Christmas market on the Champs Elysées, so I came along for the ride. Good smells and woolen-wear populated the march, but there were also some toys and mystery grab bags every few blocks that you could buy for 10 euros. Stephanie, her cousin, and I opted instead for some vin chaud to warm us up.

Then, dinner at Chartier (finally!). We had enough people to make a reservation, so there was no waiting in line. I had a vegetable soup that was kind of a bland looking green, but it tasted good enough. Followed by a mound of steak tartare served in a D.I.Y. fashion: mix in onions, capers, a raw egg and some tangy mustard sauce. Spread on some baguette and repeat.

I had a mont blanc in honor of my parents, but it wasn’t anything more than some crème de marron topped with whipped cream. Ah well, waste not want not.

We metroed to the Arc de Triomph, to work off our dinner over the 284 stairs to the top. We got an excellent and freezing cold view of the Champs Elysees all lit up, and the Eiffel Tower was sparkling. Inside there’s a museum, with miniature models of the arc that you can “navigate” with a joystick and see high-resolution details of the various friezes depicted on a corresponding screen. Very high-tech, very cool.

Almost a week left, but there’s no time to be triste. More museums, more food, more France!

Shopping etc.

More ventes pressés on Saturday morning… I love French clothing websites, all hyped up with music and flash, behind the scene videos of runway shows and the everyday wardrobe: prêt à porter. I bought a dress from American Retro (but it’s based in Paris!), and shoes from Karina Arabian, and left wanting more. Elliot (shopping partner extraordinaire) and I lunched in the 9th at a brasserie called Le Corail. It was freezing outside but the food was warm (duck pour elle, lamb pour moi) and the sauces savory. I ended it with an Ile Flotant because these days, any French dessert could be my last in Paris.

Sunday, we ventured out in the (first!) snow to the Marché aux Puces, a huge fleamarket at Porte de Clignancourt. During the long Metro ride, the snow turned to freezing rain. Hands numb and teeth chattering, it was hard to resist the overpriced gloves being thrust in my face as I struggled past with my unwieldly umbrella. I perservered. Afterward, we had flam: crunchy flatbread with melted cheese and delicious toppings, goat cheese and honey being the tastiest.

Planning has begun for our class’s Thanksgiving extravaganza; searching for “American” items yields homesickness in addition to headbanging frustration. Why don’t the French have disposable aluminum baking pans? Why! Why! Why! Luckily, there’s a place that specializes in such goods (American), appropriately called “Thanksgiving.”

Inside the tiny store, you’ll find pop-tarts, cheerios, maple syrup, marshmallows. I got three kilos of some of the biggest sweet potatoes I’ve ever laid eyes on. There’s Dr. Pepper, cream cheese, goldfish, and mint Oreos. Trust me, you don’t realize how much you miss it until its sitting there in front of you, costing twice what it does in the States.

Trying simultaneously to absorb as much French culture as possible (while really being just about ready to go home), I saw two films this week, one classique and one faux-French: Les aventures de Rabbi Jacob and Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette. I know, I know, but I saw her cottage at Versailles, and it was exciting to see it populated with pretty dresses and candied courtiers. The former was really a crazy film, a series of mistaken identities linked by a miserly old French man, played by Louis de Funès, whose rapid-fire facial twitches electrocute the film. You really need to see it to understand- the story, nothing special, but this guy’s face…

Last minute culture rush

I have two weeks left and I’m panicking. I haven’t even been to see the Louvre yet… much less the catacombs, the Picasso, Rodin, AND Pompidou… I haven’t bought raw produce to cook, haven’t eaten fondue, haven’t gotten P-A-R-I-S tattooed on my-

There’s still a lot to do.

Started off at a good pace this week by seeing a French film the Fondation played in the basement: Le Dîner de Cons. The story itself was a string of those painfully embarrassing situations that make you laugh and wince. I saw another film yesterday with my conversation group that was much easier to enjoy, even though technically understood less (no subtitles). If it ever comes to the states, I highly recommend Musée Haut, Musée Bas. It had a lot of famous French actors in it, and miraculously no Gerard Depardieu. Beautifully absurd, it characterizes the groups of people that go to museums in several chopped up narratives that are then mixed together, while the building itself battles nature through an absolutely unexplainable logic.

Our French class attended a performance of Musset’s Fantasio at La Comedie Francaise on Wednesday. The ensemble cast was very talented, and we were surprised to see a woman in the title role of the buffoon. The set was a magical merry-go-round that transformed seamlessly from bourgeois pub to palace and spun wildly whenever Fantasio took a long (opera-accompanied) swig of liquor.

I also managed to get to two ventes pressés/privés yesterday, with my friend, Stephanie. Since I arrived in Paris, I had been trying to find the French word for “sample sale,” and two weeks ago found a blog that uploads tons of invitations to these boutique sales of defective or just end-of-the-season clothing. At Chemins Blancs, I bought a cute billowy skirt with gigantic pockets and the emblem of a snail with a pom-pom shell.

So much for hidden treasures. Today we field tripped to Versailles which is larger than life itself. It took us the better part of 2 hours to tour around most of the 1st floor, then we spent another hour walking through the gardens to Marie Antoinette’s secret getaway. There were more fountains, statues, gilding and splendor than my eyes could physically handle. The low horizon makes the sky seem infinite and the setting sun made psychedelic patterns behind the clouds. It could have been the end of the world.

People complain that the inside is overdone. It’s not tacky, it’s incredible. How could you roll your eyes in disgust at the gold that shines over every inch, every footstool? The rich fabrics that line the walls? The paintings that contain entire worlds?

Adding humor and a very different culture to the palace was a Jeff Koontz exhibit that occupied many of the rooms. Gigantic, bubbly, metallic figures in a neon palette provided a stark contrast to Louis XIV’s sumptuous taste. It’s possible that Versailles would have been too much to bear without this exhibit exciting us from one room to the next. Eager to see what bizarreness awaited us, the crowds moved quickly, snapping photos and laughing or frowning just as ridiculously when confronted with a pink monstrosity:

The walk back from wonderland was freezing, and it was with great pleasure that we arrived at the Bastille in time for an early dinner of Moroccan food. At Au P’tit Cahoua the tagines come sizzling. It’s a less kitschy atmosphere than Le Souk, although flying carpets do line the ceiling, it’s more hip than striving for some kind of visual authenticity. Interesting flavor combinations like my duck with pumpkin or my friend Elliot’s lamb with pears are pretty successful, and if something lacks flavor they do supply you with hot sauce and sweet raisins to light up your tastebuds.
Sure beats the “McDo” we had (at Versailles!) to tide us over.

Madrid Part Dos

Understandably, we woke up late on Saturday. Had breakfast at a decent care, but ordered too much food. I effectively conquered what was left of my fear of peeling prawns.

Onto the Reina Sofía, with Madrid’s four floor collection of modern art. Yes, we did all four floors. Yes, it was a bit of work for the feet. But we saw Picasso’s Guernica, and his sketches for it. Also, a very good photography exhibit by Alberto García-Alix that included a film comprised of his images. As the lights went down and his throaty voice began, I though “Oh yeah, I forgot this would be in Spanish.”

Not that it ruined the film for me, I was far from bored. His images of people strike me more than the ones he takes of buildings, but all in all, he’s created a frighteningly open portrait of his life. The frame by frame rhythm of the film reminded me a little of La Jetée; both break down the film medium to its barest essentials and still manage to maintain a continuous narrative.

The other temporary exhibit was by Nancy Spero, apparently one of the first people to realize that the gun is a phallus. Not really my taste… a lot of the same thing, over and over again. What did you say about a one-trick pony? Well, that’s a little mean, but it doesn’t fall so short.

We got out of the museum and walked and walked and walked. We walked all the way to the Gran Via, when I started to limp. We had to find food, and more importantly seats, quickly. Theo found the nice street he was looking for and we walked and walked and walked, only to find that it was too early for most places to be open yet.

We had dinner at a great restaurant in that area, but I’m going to have to do a little research to find the name. We started at the bar, thinking we’d only stay for a tapas or too. Though they frowned at our calimocho request, they served it (sans blackberry liqueur), along with some spicy chorizo and chimichurri sauce. Some further looking at the menu convinced us to move to a table for dinner: pumpkin ravioli in a cream sauce with asparagus for me, and I convinced Theo to get the Iberian surprise. Nothing to surprising, just a side of pork with some tomato (or was it melon) based jelly. They gave us a complimentary digestif, and we took the Metro back.

Upon removing my socks I found a blister the size of a 6th toe. We were in for the night. So we watched Finding Nemo in Spanish. Maybe it was just that I had seen it before, but the language barrier wasn't too bad. I love cartoons.

And that was the end of Spain. We got up early today and had breakfast in the airport before I got on my flight back to Paris. I am so content with my vacation, and a little less than eager to get back to schoolwork. Sad to think I only have three weeks left here…

Madrid

Madrid was a two hour train ride away. Theo and I played hangman and watched the scenery zip by: olive groves and mountains, fields and farms gave way to industry as we neared the city. We arrived in the afternoon and were a little spooked by the creaky staircase in our hostel, as well as the mother-son team that ran it without computers and credit cards, and our “bath” that maybe one night we can dip our feet in… ah well, we’re here.

We might be getting colds, our noses are feeling stuffed, so for our first dinner we got some spicy Thai food. My Tom Yum soup had huge prawns in it, so I took a deep breath and learned how to dismantle the shell and get to the good stuff.

After dark, we went for a walk around the main area of the city. Theo pointed out museums and Plazas but I couldn’t really place myself on a map if I tried. We ended up on Calle de la Cava Baja, lined with tapas bars. Further down, we ran into El Botin, and made a reservation for Saturday at the oldest restaurant in the world. Then we retraced our steps and ended up having some wine and munching on crackers and olives at Diaz y Larrouy.

Today was a bigger day. We had breakfast at a Museo de Jambon: little pseudo-cafes that are all over Madrid with wrapped legs of ham hanging from every available space. You go in, sit or stand, and they slice it fresh for you. Wash it down with wine or beer, or coffee as we more appropriately opted for that morning.

We hiked over to the Prado to see the tremendous art collection housed there. From El Greco’s haunting and near-psychedelic paintings in the 16th century, to Goya’s terrifying Black Period, I was tired but I kept going. Velasquez’s Las Meninas is there, as well as Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. It took up a good portion of the day, but we ended considerably short of our 10:30 dinner reservation at El Botin.

So we watched the sun set, sitting in a semi-ampitheater on a pond in the Parque del Retiro, and then we did a tapas crawl. For almost 4 hours. Endless possibilities.

The first place we stopped at was called La Dolores. We stood while we drank our beers and nibbled on a bonito-on-baguette and a piece of herring and red pepper sanwiched by halves of a pickle. We mozied over to Los Gatos where we sampled some more canapes… a mound of blood sausage sprinkled with pine nuts, a sandwich of duck bacon. Going strong we marched to a bar with no name and a bullfighting motif. We ordered something more of an appetizer, shrimp swimming in olive oil and garlic. We ordered calimochos here, but they didn’t have any blackberry liqueur. However, the Irish Pub we found ourselves in afterwards, did. Signs everywhere advertized mohitos so we found a reputable looking establishment, but we disappointed to taste fanta in the mix. We finally ended up at La Camarilla, where the tapas are like little works of art. We limited ourselves to two canapes - one with sautéed mushrooms tucked under a sheet of ham and topped with a whole green pepper, and our “dessert”: camembert, strawberries, and caviar.

One more apertif at a funky place called Meson Rey del Pimiento sent us straight to El Botin where we smartly ordered a garlic soup, a filet mignon covered in mushrooms for Theo, and a roast suckling pig with potatoes pour moi. The garlic soup had an egg nestled comfortably amidst the thick broth, and the pig was outrageous. I didn’t know pork could be so tender and moist. The skin, so crispy. I was in heaven. And a little delirious.

Cordoba

Hostal Santa Ana is more hotel than hostel. I was impressed, but that’s not saying much, since I’ve never stayed in a hostel before… this will spoil me. But even Theo was wow-ed by the place, and I feel like he’s traveling almost every weekend, so he’s a pro at temporary homes.

Tuesday night we relaxed and had a late dinner at El Choto. It means “The Goat” so of course, I had to try some. Luckily it was the main course of the tasting menu of other Cordoban specialties: a salmorejo with dried ham and hard boiled egg; fried potato and ham fritter-like things, sided with garlicky sautéed mushrooms; a fried salmon croquette stuffed with shrimp (my least favorite, if only because I don’t like salmon. To its credit it was not at all fishy).

The goat itself was difficult to maneuver – lots of bone and not a lot of meat. But it was in a mysterious greenish-brown sauce that, despite appearances, was edible and even tasty if you closed your eyes. Dessert scared the monsters away; three sugary confections: a flan, some lemon custard topped with icing, and some kind of fluffy dessert cheese (marscapone?) topped with jelly. End the night with a prune liquor and you’re good to go. To bed.

Today I was able to survive on precious little food. I’m not sure how it happened, I think it just got lost in the tourist agenda. Breakfast was at a Morrocan teahouse that was reminiscent of the one in the mosque in Paris, but without all the crowds. I shared a tortilla (potato-egg quiche, with scallions!) and sipped a café con leche, which, lets face it, are much better than what I drink in Paris.

Then it was off to the Maimonides synagogue, one of the three left in all of Spain. Little more than four old walls and a lonely menorah, the air still retains its cool respect, albeit now from tourists rather than a congregation.

The still active religious sight to see is the Mezquita. A beautiful courtyard greets you, filled with citrus trees and fountains. During the day, it's warm in Cordoba; I could almost nap in this sun. There are white pigeons the swoop between impossibly green trees, the Mequizta towering behind them.
But, this building’s psychology has got to be damaged from switching hands so many times: the mosque was built by Muslims on the site of a martyry, then re-conquered by Christians, who erected a huge church in the center of it – can we say therapy?

It does seem to be at war with itself in the center, where the church’s elaborate arches clash with the temple’s simpler ones of brick red and white. These will captivate you in their dizzying repetition. However, rather than violence, the clash evokes a beautiful and timeless competition. Historically, the building may reek of the crusades, but aesthetically it is incredible to see such different incarnations of splendor side by side.

I followed the old wall that lines the outside of ancient Cordoba to the old fortress, the Alcazar, but it was closed for the afternoon, so I photographed some of the stray cats that linger around the ruins instead.
During Theo’s evening class, I searched for a good restaurant, ending decisively on Bodegas Campos. We headed out for our late dinner with sizeable hunger and expectations. It took us awhile to find it, but the walk was nice, cobblestoned, and along the river. I was worried we wouldn’t be able to get a table, but it was near empty when we arrived. Sipping a fino appertif we perused the delicious menu.

A leg of Iberian ham being sliced fresh in the room convinced us of our first course, which we followed with two more appetizers: blood sausage and escarole with some kind of thick sauce - smokey and tangy, and tender artichoke hearts with mushrooms swimming in an earthy brown dressing. Our main courses were no less beautiful; Theo had the thickest steak I had ever seen in my life, accompanied by flat mushrooms with salt sprinkled on them. I had oxtail… another first. It came off the bone and smothered in creamed potatoes. I almost didn’t want desert, to keep the flavors on my tongue, but pears poached in wine sounded too good to pass up. Served with cinnamon ice cream and caramel, the flavors were brilliant together and very refreshing.

A sweet sip of digestif warmed the walk back to town, where we met Theo's friend from Oberlin, Pablo and other students in his program in an Irish Pub they frequent. Theo introduced me to Rafa, a local drunk/professor with a lot to say about the education system in Spain. We drank calimochos... half red wine and half coca-cola, with a splash of blackberry liqueur. Very tasty, and more manly than it sounds, acutally.

Monday is the new Saturday

Having updated my blog on Sunday, I found Jenn working dilgently on a paper, so I headed out into the wide streets of Vienna, towards the Buggarten. This beautiful park is home to the Schmetterlinghaus, which (a haus in itself) houses gigantic tropical butterflies in its confined humidity. I toured the small jungle three or four times, before venturing to form an interspecies friendship.
Once I felt the sweat seeping through my clothes however, I knew it was time to head back outside and cool off. I reserached places for dinner, but Jenn and I agreed to go to a place she had mentioned earlier, 1516. A little bit like TGI Fridays, a little bit like a sports bar, Jenn, her friend Titi and I felt right at home, which is not necessarily a bad thing to feel in a new place. We shared an enormous rack of ribs and watched a very intense soccer game (intense, I learned, is a word to describe a game in which no one scores).

Not ready to turn in just yet, Jenn and I continued to Tunnel, Cafe Merkur’s sister establishment for some local jazz. They were not good, but they took frequent long breaks, giving us time to talk. Conversations with Jenn always promise to make me think, and I left feeling full.

Monday went similarly, at least in the beginning, as I went to visit the Leopold museum where they were having a Christian Schad retrospective and had a permanent collection of Egon Schiele that looked too good to pass up. I wandered through the works of these essential Austrian artists, barely noticing the fun I was having.

Going to museums is hit or miss... I either feel too forced, too intellectual, too inexperienced, too bored, or too overwhelmed. I feel like I need a private guide or maybe no one in the room at all. This time, on my own, it turned out I needed neither. I totally and unexpectedly enjoyed myself.

I returned refreshed and Jenn and I went to have lunch at a Cafe-slash-Konditore (meaning they sell cakes). I had a decent grilled cheese with ham, which tasted better dipped in Jenn’s goulash. We followed it with cakes(!), my Sachretort was a dense deliciousness of chocolate cake lined with an orange-flavored jelly.

The rest of the day turns into a bit of a blur. We had some Steigl (which Jenn said is brewed near her university), went to see High School Musical 3, where (thankfully) we were the only ones in the theater. Is 5’o clock really too early to see a movie? I mean, it’s Disney. This was followed by a dinner of a Käsekrainer, and of course, some Ottakringer beer. We then started a long and difficult journey to find the ERASMUS student club where we danced and avoided sketchiness and danced and avoided sketchiness for what seemed like hours. I don’t usually like clubs, but I think I was smiling.

We walked down Nubensdorf, had some more hot dogs – another Käsekrainer for me, Jenn’s had curry powder and a sweet ketchup. On the metro, we ran into Titi and Jenn’s TA Robert, who accompanied us to the Prater for some more beers (in the parking lot). They were interested in clubbing, but unfortunately, nothing is open on a Monday in Vienna.

It was easier than I expected to get up this morning. Jenn and I made a breakfast that rivaled our first together and I hopped on the train, then on a plane...
Then on another plane, then on another train, until finally I was in Cordoba. Does Europe not do latitudes? It’s just as cold here as it was in Vienna.

Vienna!

After Jenn returned from class on Friday, she took me to get some pre-dinner drinks at a great café called Café Merkur. We each had a Gösse Märzen (my German pronounciation improves at an exponential rate), and caught up on our lives. Vienna is such a change from my situation in Paris – suddenly I have time to think, and talk, and reflect. I cannot live permanently in the present or the past, and eventually a constant evaluation of myself and the world around me will wear me thin as the Parisian life. But for now, it’s a welcomed change of pace. There is nothing in the world except for Jenn, Vienna, and I.

Afterwards we had a small meal at an African placed called Café Sagya, where belly dancers entertained the crowd after our curried chicken dinner and fried bananas in coconut milk dessert. Hardly authentic (one used a bamboo stick as a soldier’s baton), and barely anything more than some Viennese exotic dancers than had taken a class or two in belly dancing, these two women nevertheless managed to incite the room to raucous shouting and clapping, and even encouraged an impromptu dance party.

This was my first experience with the Viennese… and far from being disappointed at a lack of authenticity or at the quality of the entertainment, I found myself enjoying the performance as much as the locals. Authenticity is elusive, it can’t be replicated… if in a posh Parisian bar they imported belly dancers from India and played real belly dancing music (rather than the samba that came on later in the evening), it still would fall short of the real thing, I’m sure. So it was ok, and maybe even preferable, that in this bar, Austria used its own people to portray the culture of another; it made the experience more accessible. Even if the replication was flawed, the mood it produced in the crowd was essentially the same: no one thought “Oh, how exotic!” but rather they enjoyed the dance personally, it could have been a local custom.

Afterwards we roamed the streets looking for a late night snack: we shared one Käsekrainer, and then, unsatisfied, shared another. These fat sausages are loaded with melted cheese, and stuffed into a fluffy baguette with ketchup and mustard. Basically heaven. Definitely not kosher.

On Saturday we woke up and went to the grocery store to buy materials for breakfast: apples, kiwis, mushrooms, eggs, and a freshly baked (still warm!) dark bread decorated inside and out with sunflower seeds. Topped with a spread of jalepenos and sundried tomatoes, or an one with eggs and bacon, and I was ready to go. Or at least, readier than I had been when I woke up.

We decided on a visit to the MAK, a museum of contemporary and applied arts, which we found meant a museum dedicated to design. We saw everything from the stencil prints used to dye ancient Japanese dresses, to architectural models that threatened war on their environment. Rooms filled with furniture, textiles, ceramics, and glass were all grouped together under this mysterious word “design.” It drew your attention to the thought process that went into creating the piece. A room full of chairs brought this concept to light, literally, by placing screens in front of backlit chairs, so that you could only see their silhouette. And a room of two way mirrors:

There was also a series of mostly color-pencil sketches by Austrian artist, Günter Brus. He used “characters” from Hieronymous Bosch as well as others in his elaborate doodles with captions and stories that unfortunately I couldn’t translate. Maybe somewhere between Dali and Dr. Seuss, or maybe something different entirely.

We walked from Stephanplatz to Karlsplatz and into the Nachtmarkt: a open-air, covered market that’s better organized than the overwhelming mess you see at somewhere like Place de la Bastille on a Saturday morning. It’s two aisles, one with food and the other with restaurants. Jenn took me to a stall called Käseland (Cheese World) where I happily bought a year old Voralberger Bergkäse, and a piece of Rässkäse. I asked for something older, and this was old. I have it wrapped in three bags to keep it from smelling up Jenn’s fridge. The cheese is strong. And from Austria!
The church at Stephanplatz.

I washed it down with some freshly squeezed cactus juice, Jenn bought an impossibly smooth humus and we headed back to rest before dinner.

Needing to have one blowout night, we went to the restaurant/beer garden Siebensternbraü. They brew their own beer on premises and have several, only slightly contrived, flavors. We started out with a hemp beer and a chili beer. The first had a nice herbal thing going on, but the second one was really a treat: my lips were burning as I dove into my cast-iron skillet of tiny potato gnoccis in a thick cheese sauce. For seconds we tried their Märzen and something translated as a “smoke” beer, that tasted like what Chez Robert et Louise smells like in Paris. Then I had a dark beer called Prager Dunkles and Jenn required a raspberry schnapps to digest. Schnapps are essentially the same thing as the l’eau de vie I’ve seen in France. Flavored perfume.
Fairly soused, we came back and walked through the carnival which was filled with other soused folk. In the dorm we showed each other our favorite videos on the Internet, and I fell asleep watching some rip-off of dancing with the stars on BBC.

I can’t believe that they have televisions in their dorm rooms.

Someone needs a vacation

Something strange about watching the elections in Paris and seeing Grant Park in Chicago on a big screen. It’s true, I could have been there, watching Obama’s acceptance speech; instead I was in a basement with 50 other cramped Americans, half-studying for my final. We thought we saw a group of UChicago kids flash on the screen, briefly and awkwardly. Plans were initially to go to American Breakfast, a café that serves pancakes and bacon, among other delicacies; but, as it is a tiny, tiny venue, we decided not to risk getting stranded in the middle of Paris at 1 a.m.

Last night Elyssa’s parents took us out to dinner at Le Souk. I ordered what my mother had the first time we went there: le tagine cannette – duck, apricots, figs, almonds, and a truly mouth-watering broth that begs to be eaten with your neighbors’ couscous. Elyssa’s friends are very much grown-ups: some, having graduated from Harvard, now hold full-time jobs in Paris, partially thanks to their dual citizenship. Learning French sometimes feels a bit masochistic, but after only a few hours with these incredibly well-centered and beautiful people, I feel justified in my decision to come here again. Or, if not justified, then re-energized by wishful thinking.

Our final yesterday was a Montaigne massacre. My brain was a puddle as I left the classroom, and no one could really remember what they had written. No matter – it’s vacation! As I write this, I’m sitting in my friend Jenn’s dorm in Vienna, Austria. Definitely has a different vibe than Paris, much more laid back: beer over wine, tafelspitz over duck confit. The flight here was painless, until the landing, when my ears decided to explode – I still can’t hear out of my right ear very well. I went into an apothecary to look for some ear drops, and the pharmacist prescribed instead a nose spray. Although, with his thick German accent, it felt particularly authentic… as though Freud himself were treating my sinuses.

Afterwards I went for a walk through the carnival across from the dorm. It had ferris wheels and roller coasters, and a strange sculpture exhibit that looked like the love child of David Lynch and Lisa Frank. Pretty creepy stuff. You know, for a carnival.

My plans for this break are to stay the weekend in Vienna, then fly to Cordoba to see Theo, and travel to Madrid with him. Excitement shall ensue.

The end of the visit

I do not exaggerate when I say that this week has been one of, if not the best gustatory experience of my life. The entire week my parents and I were driven by where and what we would eat next; I think it must be only in Paris that this kind of schedule never gets old.

Although it did wear us out: by the end, our feet were much blistered, and it’s difficult to say if all of the walking made any dent in the 10 pounds we must have gained. My schoolwork undoubtedly took a temporary backseat to all of the sightseeing and foodtasting and winedrinking, but a week-long alternative curriculum like that isn’t going to kill me.

In honor of Halloween on this Friday, my parents and I walked through the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. The air was cold and humid and probably gave everyone the cough they’re carrying now. The loud crows (with french accents, my mother insisted) flew ominously above our heads as we located the graves of Abelard and Heloise, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde. It was a smart move to plan a route and then not stick to it, since the cemetery itself is a sight in the fall. Even the less known or nameless graves have character and beauty.


Afterward, we headed to the Marais, where I had hoped to take my parents to Le Café Musée, but when I saw that the fantastic mussels had left their menu, we decided on the larger brasserie with a friendly yellow front on the corner of Rue de Turenne and Rue des Francs Bourgeois. We warmed up quick with some soupes de l’onion and headed into the Marais to continue the search for Caroline’s gift. About 3 hours later, we were successful, but the cobblestones had murdered our feet and we had to hobble back to the Metro.

A 10 minute recuperation in the hotel room and then back to the Cité Universitaire, where the University of Chicago was having a symposium on the election. Three speakers summed up what we already knew about the current state of things back in the good old Etats-Unis, then we had wine and potato chips and rushed out in order to make…

The table I had reserved at Chez Robert and Louise that evening, the same restaurant made famous by Anthony Bourdain that I had gone to before with Theo. This time, they sat us in the back, next to the fire and the kitchen, so we could see the meat being hacked into pieces that spat and sizzled on the fire. We shared a côte de bœuf for three people, but not before helping ourselves to a plate of ham, a plate of saucissons, and my lovely boudin noir, which, surprisingly, I had all to myself.

After dinner, there was no time, nor room, for dessert, and I rushed to the MK2 cinema next to La Bibliothèque National to meet my friends who were seeing the new James Bond, Quantum of Solace. I changed into my tights and Bond-girl dress in the bathroom, missing the first 10 minutes, but luckily nothing essential. What a great film. Slightly disorienting fight scenes, but super intense and fun. Sexy-violent. The French subtitles however, seemed to be for an entirely different film.

I woke up surprisingly early the next morning, and met my parents for a “French” breakfast near their hotel. I doubt that the bread smeared with butter and jelly + a croissant + a hot chocolate + an orange juice represents realistically what the average french person eats every morning, but it was certainly delicious. As we finished, we realized it was almost lunchtime and that we had a rendezvous with my friend from high school, Elyssa, and her parents, who had arrived on Thursday. Unfortunately, Le Mesturet, a café that Elyssa had recommended, was closed since it was Tous Saints (All Saint’s Day), but we found a satisfactory Franco-Italian (heavy on the talian) place, and basically carb overdosed.

Then we set off towards Le Bon Marché, and more importantly La Grande Epicerie. Le Bon Marché is pretty much like any huge department store in a major city, but La Grande Epicerie was more similar to Harrods in London. A little smaller, of course, but basically an indoor, simplified version of the outdoor markets they have here on the weekend. Plus some interesting packaged goods that make excellent gifts. One of the positives to having an indoor, permanent market is that you can sell impossibly delicate pastries: the dark chocolate glaze glistened over perfectly rounded dome-shaped cakes. Others seemed more like abstract paintings than edible food. I settled on a huge chocolate macaron.

I took another much needed bath in the hotel (one of the luxuries I will miss deeply during the next month or so I’ll spend here), and looked for a suitable restaurant for our last dinner together in Paris. Not bistro, not brasserie, but still something definitely French. Le Reminet almost scared us away as we approached it for our 8 o’clock reservation. It was empty and the candles on the table seemed to give off more snootiness than warmth. When we couldn’t reserve another table at such short notice, our bellies convinced us to return. Luckily.

The food is french, but updated, nouveaux. So... fancy plates, expensive wines, and even a tasting menu, which, with the two appetizers and two main courses that it promised, seemed to be too complicated for our current state of mind. My father had a goat cheese tartine, my mother a salmon tartar, and I myself finally had foie gras: fried and served with three pears poached thoroughly in red wine. The second course came out promptly: gigantic prawns over a mystery grain strewn with chorizo for my father, veal perfectly seasoned with some root vegetables and onions that tasted even more perfect for my mother, and seared scallops over a fluffy, foamy bed of risotto with mushrooms pour moi. Dessert took a bit longer to arrive, probably because the small restaurant had become packed, and even loud, since we got there. My mother had a cheese plate, my father a delicious shortbread with coconut ice cream accompanied by fresh figs, and I had, a difficult-to-dissect orange-sugar scroll, filled with lemon sorbet with raspberries on the side.


This morning, to cheer myself up after my parents departure, I went to the market and bought pounds and pounds of produce, but it still couldn’t fill the empty space in my stomach I reserve for the kinds of memorable meals we shared together. Outside of the restaurant last night we were treated to a wonderful view of Notre Dame looming over the Seine. We walked up the street towards the Pantheon and agreed: it was a perfect ending to a perfect week.