it snowed today. i took out my camera (film still looks better you digital Fascists), which had been sitting in my closet since January last - when I arrived in my rainy French wonderland.
i sat in my so-called pied-a-terre, and i opened the window and inhaled the cold, wintery Parisair. and i watched the big flakes fall, and i clicked away with manual focus.
they didn't stick.
but a girl can hope . . .
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Don't Ever Go To Pisa
Often, hip and youthful Americans living abroad, particularly those in Paris, maintain an online journal detailing their exotic new home and life. These weblogs, or "blogs," as they are called by those in the 'know,' are then shared with friends and family members and random non-acquaintances as proof of the superiority of the blogger's oh-so-cultured-and-counter-American-culture existence. That is the first purpose of these humble writings. The second, and foremost, purpose of these journals is to score a book deal.
The trajectory proceeds as such: Blogger's writing doesn't suck (a lot). Blog fulfills primary American Abroad narrative criteria - I 1) moved to Paris/Barcelona/Florence, I 2) got my heart broken/fell in love/had impromptu sex on a futon with a European/bought really cool shoes/all of the above, and then, suddenly, I 3)discovered I could speak the language/found myself homeless/knocked-up/in jail, whereupon I 4)founded a wildly successful international dot-com/called that random guy I know at the Embassy to bail me out/found my true calling as a post-modernist slam-poet. In the end, I realized that 5)America really is the best/everything is more romantic in Paris-Barcelona-Florence/syphilis can be cured with penicillin. Blogger then strategically builds readership while teaching business English to pay rent. Blogger secures the notice of Small-Time Publisher who happens to be having an affair with Big-Time Publisher who steals Small-Time's manuscripts and clients away, thus securing Blogger their first book deal/heartless act of self-promotion. Finally, Blogger's book will be introduced to the (American) world with tepid acclaim. It will detail all of the above adventures, plus act as an off-color European travel guide with biting regional commentaries such as:
"People go to Rome to see historic works of art. People go to Pisa to see a historic fuck-up."
Of course, this weblog aspires to no such literary heights. Here, we're happy just to get spell-check's approval. (Currently we are falling short with "weblog." Irony is our friend.) So, while other, more enterprising bloggers fill their Macbooks with tales of love and triumph over European adversity, we will be at home with our cats, haphazardly typing our Mad Libs Moveable Feast.
The trajectory proceeds as such: Blogger's writing doesn't suck (a lot). Blog fulfills primary American Abroad narrative criteria - I 1) moved to Paris/Barcelona/Florence, I 2) got my heart broken/fell in love/had impromptu sex on a futon with a European/bought really cool shoes/all of the above, and then, suddenly, I 3)discovered I could speak the language/found myself homeless/knocked-up/in jail, whereupon I 4)founded a wildly successful international dot-com/called that random guy I know at the Embassy to bail me out/found my true calling as a post-modernist slam-poet. In the end, I realized that 5)America really is the best/everything is more romantic in Paris-Barcelona-Florence/syphilis can be cured with penicillin. Blogger then strategically builds readership while teaching business English to pay rent. Blogger secures the notice of Small-Time Publisher who happens to be having an affair with Big-Time Publisher who steals Small-Time's manuscripts and clients away, thus securing Blogger their first book deal/heartless act of self-promotion. Finally, Blogger's book will be introduced to the (American) world with tepid acclaim. It will detail all of the above adventures, plus act as an off-color European travel guide with biting regional commentaries such as:
"People go to Rome to see historic works of art. People go to Pisa to see a historic fuck-up."
Of course, this weblog aspires to no such literary heights. Here, we're happy just to get spell-check's approval. (Currently we are falling short with "weblog." Irony is our friend.) So, while other, more enterprising bloggers fill their Macbooks with tales of love and triumph over European adversity, we will be at home with our cats, haphazardly typing our Mad Libs Moveable Feast.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Phrase Book
As I am learning French, I often find that the French word for something is almost exactly like the English word. For instance: tennis=tennis, racisme=racism, superficiel=superficial. This makes learning French vocabulary infinitely easier than learning, say, Inuit vocabulary. All that is needed, really, to complete the cultural transformation from American to French, is a cartoonish French accent added to each word to properly translate the language. It is also helpful to know that in La France, some phrases are exact translations of the American English.
For instance: when a grungy dirty man sitting across the aisle from you on the crowded Metro "accidentally" "falls" out of his chair during a minor curve of the ride and reaches out to grab the "nearest" thing to him to keep from "falling" on the floor, and, instead of grabbing the pole between the two of you, he steadies himself by pawing your luscious breast, then the following phrase is an appropriate response in both languages -
"If you fucking touch me again I will fucking kill you!"
The only difference between the American and French deliveries is that, in America, you might follow the phrase with a spray of mace in the man's eyes, while in France, simply leaning in uncomfortably close and pointing your finger in his face will suffice. It may seem to the inexperienced Metro rider that such colloquial wording would not make sense in French, but I can guarantee you (judging by the look of sheer fear in the jackass's eyes), no translation is needed.
For instance: when a grungy dirty man sitting across the aisle from you on the crowded Metro "accidentally" "falls" out of his chair during a minor curve of the ride and reaches out to grab the "nearest" thing to him to keep from "falling" on the floor, and, instead of grabbing the pole between the two of you, he steadies himself by pawing your luscious breast, then the following phrase is an appropriate response in both languages -
"If you fucking touch me again I will fucking kill you!"
The only difference between the American and French deliveries is that, in America, you might follow the phrase with a spray of mace in the man's eyes, while in France, simply leaning in uncomfortably close and pointing your finger in his face will suffice. It may seem to the inexperienced Metro rider that such colloquial wording would not make sense in French, but I can guarantee you (judging by the look of sheer fear in the jackass's eyes), no translation is needed.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Vin Rouge/Similes
My cats are like Perfection, but they shed more.
Friends are like enemies, but more pleasant.
Lust is like disgust, but more palpable.
Lawns are like Hummers, but more standard.
Laughing is like crying, but more people are involved.
Twinkies are like the 1st Amendment, but more unnecessary.
Friends are like enemies, but more pleasant.
Lust is like disgust, but more palpable.
Lawns are like Hummers, but more standard.
Laughing is like crying, but more people are involved.
Twinkies are like the 1st Amendment, but more unnecessary.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Not Forgetting
A year ago, my friend Amie died suddenly in Evanston, IL. I couldn't be there to say goodbye, but I sent this tribute:
Lentil soup. It may seem strange that when I think of Amie I think of soup, but that’s two Italian women for you. Amie knew this was my favorite dish at the house. On those special days, it was the first thing she said to me as I stumbled downstairs for breakfast. “Lentil soup today!” she said. It always made my morning - not just the anticipation, but also the joy that someone else understood my obsession with Tuscan country food. We used to grade the revolving door of Chi Omega chefs on their skill at this particular dish. Were there enough vegetables? Was the stock seasoned? Did they use good olive oil? As a vegetarian Italian (which Amie assured me there was no such thing), she would warn me if the chef used meat in the soup. Although I know sometimes she lied because the chef himself would come out and brag about the great pancetta he had added, and then ask me not to tell the vegetarians.
The last time I saw Amie was over a year ago at a wedding in Evanston. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember thinking she looked great. Not great – stunning. She was beaming, full of life. That’s how I always thought of her – this strong, beautiful Italian woman that I always wanted to laugh with and never wanted to cross. At the wedding, she told me about a trip she was planning for that summer. She was going to tour Puglia with her family and maybe make an annual tour out of it. I don’t know if she ever took that trip, but I hope she did. I hope she ate pasta 'til she got sick. I hope she drove those Italian men crazy with her blond hair and big smile. And I hope she brought back an even better recipe for lentil soup.
Lentil soup. It may seem strange that when I think of Amie I think of soup, but that’s two Italian women for you. Amie knew this was my favorite dish at the house. On those special days, it was the first thing she said to me as I stumbled downstairs for breakfast. “Lentil soup today!” she said. It always made my morning - not just the anticipation, but also the joy that someone else understood my obsession with Tuscan country food. We used to grade the revolving door of Chi Omega chefs on their skill at this particular dish. Were there enough vegetables? Was the stock seasoned? Did they use good olive oil? As a vegetarian Italian (which Amie assured me there was no such thing), she would warn me if the chef used meat in the soup. Although I know sometimes she lied because the chef himself would come out and brag about the great pancetta he had added, and then ask me not to tell the vegetarians.
The last time I saw Amie was over a year ago at a wedding in Evanston. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember thinking she looked great. Not great – stunning. She was beaming, full of life. That’s how I always thought of her – this strong, beautiful Italian woman that I always wanted to laugh with and never wanted to cross. At the wedding, she told me about a trip she was planning for that summer. She was going to tour Puglia with her family and maybe make an annual tour out of it. I don’t know if she ever took that trip, but I hope she did. I hope she ate pasta 'til she got sick. I hope she drove those Italian men crazy with her blond hair and big smile. And I hope she brought back an even better recipe for lentil soup.
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