Etonnez-Moi, Francoise!

The French will never get over the sixties, I don't think. And I can't blame them. They have a lot of icons from that period, but while most people have heard of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin and Brigitte Bardot, my favorite is Francoise Hardy. I mean, just look at her. Where do you think Cat Power got her look from?

She's a contemporary of Jane Birkin, but while Jane Birkin has always just been too breathy for me to take, Francoise Hardy has this complicated old school charm. She sings about the sensation of being a single woman surrounded by happy couples, and wanting to be astonished by Benoit, and she does an awesome cover of Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne." Paris has a massive history of style icons and actresses like Catherine Deneuve and Brigitte Bardot (I love Brigitte Bardot too, more on that later), but Francoise Hardy just epitomizes this smart, kind of badass, laid-back style that I really love. She's complicated and interesting. Which I think is a big difference between the United States and France. I get the sense that women like Francoise Hardy are more likely to be popular in France than in the United States, where we can't really seem to get more creative than Audrey Hepburn. And no offense to Audrey Hepburn, but Francoise Hardy isn't cute. There's no aiming to please or adhering to a preconceived notion of femininity going on here. And yet, Francoise Hardy was and still is a huge popstar.

Anyway, I love Francoise Hardy. Her music, her leather jackets and striped t-shirts, her style. And I think that Cat Power, Jenny Lewis, and any woman in indie rock with bangs and angst is pretty indebted to her.  And I love them too, but you can't really dispute this:




Monday was crazy as per usual. Bikram yoga in Montmartre was just right though. Maybe if this writing thing doesn't work out, I'll just become a yoga instructor. I can just see it -- shouting "Tirez! Tirez! Tirez!" to a room full of suffering French and American yogis and yoginis trying to balance their entire bodies on one foot. Or I could just have two professions that pay terribly.

In the words of Francoise Hardy, je suis bien perplexe.

C'est un total eclipse of the heart

A couple of things:

1. I really miss burritos.

2. My discount grocery store plays the strangest French versions of American songs. Last time it was "Let the Sunshine In" from "Hair." Today it was "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and the song from "Flashdance." Surreal when you're digging through the discount gouda selection. Or really just surreal...

3. The funny thing about grad school applications is that they make you write. This week I've written way more than in the whole time I've been here. I am conjuring up images of spending next year in New York or Boston or Iowa or SoCal. Or, you know, Wisconsin.

4. About a month from now, my family will be in Paris!

5. Today I ran to the Bastille from my house. Turns out it's like 4 miles. So I guess I'm getting back in shape.

6. I made pasta puttanesca successfully for a second time. Mastering the art of normal cooking is coming in right on schedule.

7. One of my friends has a jar of peanut butter. Our level of excitement over this is kind of ridiculous.

8. Still people-sick. Who wants a postcard?

9. Leonard Cohen's music was totally made for Paris. Nothing makes me feel quite like a young bohemian writer making my way in Paris like listening to Leonard Cohen while cooking in my shabby kitchen in my tiny apartment between looking out at Paris night windows over the courtyard and writing.

10. Or perhaps I'm just kind of pretentious.

Plastic Wrap Jesus, Our Lady of the Garage, and A Bad Case of People-Sickness

I found out this week that the beautiful old church at Place Jeanne d'Arc near my apartment is called Notre Dame de la Gare. This is pretty much "Our Lady of the Train Station," or, less charitably, "Our Lady of the Garage." Coincidentally, I live down the street from a Portuguese bookstore that sells Jesus figurines, which are some of the scariest I've ever seen. I mean, the concept of Jesus doesn't bother me, it's just these bizarre plastic figures that are grotesque and crucified. I don't know. Crucifixes, particularly of the gory Catholic variety, have always sort of freaked me out. The most terrifying Jesus on display, and one that has never been sold since I've gotten here, is still wrapped in its plastic wrap. It's creepy enough to see Jesus looking all battered and scary. But the plastic wrap adds (my apologies) a whole new layer.

So there you have it. I live in the quartier of plastic wrap Jesus and Our Lady of the Garage. France does weird stuff with religion.

Today I ate American French toast for the first time in probably months at one of my friends' apartments. It definitely beat Parisian petit dejeuner, where you have to pay about 8 euros for coffee and a croissant and get hungry twenty minutes later.

So much of my life here revolves around food. Have I mentioned that I love grocery shopping here? It's way cheaper than it is in the US, and probably the only that is in France. Two days ago I discovered the holy grail (can't seem to get away from these religious references...) of food shopping -- the French discount grocery store, where you can get fromage blanc (France's delicious answer to plain yogurt), honey, fair trade coffee, and all of my weekly staples (couscous, lentils, eggs, fruit, veggies) and even sort of fancy stuff (harissa! olive oil! organic things!) all for around a euro each, if that.

Mmmmm. I love saving money. And I love cooking delicious things. I am learning how to cook here, and definitely not in the Julia Child sense of the word, either. But given that I could probably count the number of times I cooked anything before coming here, and also that my kitchen is literally two hot plates, a minifridge, and a sink, I think I'm doing pretty well. Couscous and lentils, harissa, kidney bean burgers, a variety of omelets... the next project is pasta puttanesca.

As always, at breakfast we started talking about not leaving. And it's tempting. I'm applying to grad school this winter, and if I get into one of my top choices, I'm definitely going. But I thought about it a little. I mean, if I was going to be here for more than a year, I probably wouldn't want to stay in my tiny apartment. I would probably want to find something cheaper, and maybe a little bigger (c'est possible!) in one of three Ms: the Marais, Montparnasse, or Montmartre. Or the 17th arrondissement because I know it and love it.

And I would want to get a magic jack for my computer (it turns your computer into a phone, way easier than Skype), and probably a toaster oven. And I would probably need more clothes. And a renewed visa. And probably a little more patience with the whole French bureaucracy thing.

But I thought about it.

And then I remembered that while I don't get homesick much anymore, I am constantly people-sick. I miss getting coffee with my friends at home and at school and walking around Greenlake together and going out dancing and doing stupid things like watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or searching for bubbletea in the university district at midnight or listening to Leonard Cohen driving around late at night. I miss watching "Mad Men" with my parents. I miss the back office at 826. And you know your life has gotten kind of strange when the people you miss are on both coasts of the United States and even in different countries. How did I get here? I left Seattle for college when I was 18, and I spent four years in Northampton, well, four months were spent in Senegal. That's key. I'm pretty sure that's when the wanderlust happened.

And now I live in Paris. And depending on where I end up getting into grad school, I have no idea where I'll be around this time next year.

A while ago, my mom told me that most 22-year-olds don't live by themselves in Paris. One of my friends said that if she could transplant the people she loves at home to Paris, she would never want to leave. And they're both right. Such is the conundrum of being one of the 22-year-olds that do live by themselves in Paris. If you happen to know one of us, we probably miss you. A lot.

Sometimes, though, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Getting better and writing poems with L. Cohen

Disclaimer: The following contains references to my brief medical anomoly-hood this summer that some readers may find upsetting. Proceed with caution, dear readers -- however many of you there may be...

Today I swam for an hour, and I realized that I am getting much stronger after the excision of the Mini Cooper tumor this summer. Or maybe I'm just a faster swimmer because I'm not hauling around 7 extraneous pounds. It felt good, more than I can put into words. Getting better felt good, being better -- hell, just being okay -- defies description.

Also -- French pools sell swimsuits in vending machines, and require women to wear swim caps and men to wear speedos. Supposedly "hygiene" is the reason for this. I have my doubts.

Then my swimming friend and I stopped for a coffee at a small cafe across the street from the pool. It was the perfect antidote to swimming-induced aching (in a good way) limbs. Back at home in the 13th, I went grocery shopping, made dinner, watched "True Blood," drank tea and ate some pain au chocolat, wrote a poem, and listened to Leonard Cohen before bed. "Famous Blue Raincoat" and "So Long Marianne" and especially "Last Year's Man" sound different here. Better, if that's possible. Or maybe I'm just better.

I like Paris. It's been said but it bears repeating.