Try the vase as an ottoman, it's a simple surprise.
Last full day of Paris. Fuck.
I wanted to go to bed early last night but couldn't bear the thought of sleeping and not being present in Paris. I wrote Post Cards, but the Post Office is closed today & I also have no idea how to decipher what the signs say. All I need are stamps- but that is apparently a task that is above the degree of understanding that I have for the French Language.
I wanted to find the store where I bought my ring last time I was here. Charlie and I happened upon it randomly & then spent our final day trying to locate it once again. It seems only fitting that I replicate my previous final day. This time though, I looked it up. I had the business card glued into my journal, the same one I brought with me. So yes, I have an online and tangible journal, both are honest in different ways. Even in the tangible one I don't admit things in it. Sometimes my thoughts are too heavy for memories. They don't need to be scrawled in a ledger.
I was set to meet Joseph for dinner, he works & American Apparel & was getting off at 7:30. I took the transit back down to the Pompidou, where the ring, American Apparel, vintage clothing & Le Pain Quotidien are located. Nicole, my best friend, and I always eat at Pain du Quotidien in Pasadena (when she lived there). Last time I was here, I saw it & took a photo. I figure it's time for me to eat there. It was exactly the same as Pasadena, only moderately more French. The communal table & other individual tables were all downstairs. We descended a helix of smooth stone steps. The menu was similar, but had more options & the food was better. The same rusty tractor seats were mounted on the wall. They didn't have organic cloth napkins.
The Jewelry shop was closed- maybe for the better? I window shopped.
I saw Hotel DeVille & the Pompidou & other things I can't really remember or pronounce. I went thrift shopping & found shirts I wanted, but then realized I didn't have my credit card & still needed to get dinner.
I bought 3 necklaces-one silver collar & two long gold necklaces. I sat at a restaurant for a while & had a Merlot Rose, but the waiter didn't understand the way I said "Merlot" and that saddened me. I saw him fight with the other waiter to bring me the check, that delighted me. They gave me happy hour rates, I gave them a 50% tip.
Girls in Paris don't wear makeup, or rather, they wear the type of makeup that makes you think they aren't wearing makeup. My makeup is dark & smoky. People know I am not Parisian. I like being different while still feeling a part of something. I have always relished in the security of being an outsider. I like the constant of knowing that I only slightly belong. That has been a beautiful & dependable thing.
Had a few coffees at two different places. Each time someone asked me for a cigarette and then asked me where I am from. I am starting to think there is a cigarette grabbing posse that collects information for France. A cigarette census, if you will.
I picked Joseph up form American Apparel at 7:00, and waited for him until around 7:45, just watching people milling about their apartments: watching TV, drinking bottled water, watching me watching them. I desperately want to know their layout. Does everyone only have one room flats? France seems so small when I can't see inside.
We met up with Joseph's boyfriend, two two other friends I met the first night & a new friend. We went to an organic place to eat brilliantly delicious food. I had a mushroom loaf (veg meatloaf), with pureed parsnip and potato. It was bliss. We talked a lot about Brazil, where one of the guys is from, Paris and America. We talked about media, art, music & the differences between our cultures. We talked about my desires to come back, to get them to come to SF, to rearrange my life. We talked about schooling, about the differences in achieving degrees & societal ambiguities.
I asked them to assess me & tell me what I was doing wrong when it came to looking Parisian. They said: you have too many piercings, you wear too dark of eye makeup-wear no makeup...no! wear a lot of makeup so it makes you look like you wear no makeup, no girl ever wears gel in her hair, it's always soft- you're dress is ok...
I interrupted them: This dress is from Paris, it's vintage from the 60's.
[uproar of laughter] ok ok. well then, that's why the dress is ok, we can tell.
So only my Parisian dress is OK, everything else has to go. Apparently my thought that I was assimilating was wrong. But, that's ok. I sort of liked that. I try to step out of what is expected in San Francisco, and in Paris it is even easier to cross the line. If I ever decided to live here, I understand that behavior would promise that I would never assimilate. So strange that we are not so different, we share so much, and yet homogeny is still stronger than individuality.
We ordered desert. I ordered a creme brule. Waiter said, "3 Crème brûlée" and Arthur retorted, "no, 2 Crème brûlée & 1 Crem-Broolay" I do love the banter. They are lovely & inviting & treated me like one of their own. Something I was not expecting in Paris.
I took the subway home for the last time, walked the way home for the last time, went to bed for the last time-this time-in Paris. I packed everything up & went to bed.
The next morning, this morning, I attempted to send Post Cards but needed stamps. I have no-freaking-idea how to buy stamps in a Post Office in Paris. I don't even understand what line to go in in a Paris Post Office. Also, are there ATMs there? That's not nice. I was trying to buy stamps out of them. That didn't work.
One last croissant & it was down two stations to Gare du Nord. One journey complete, one journey begins.
Amsterdam: what-what.
The last moments of my apartment, right after I cleaned, right after I left the keys on the desk:
I wanted to go to bed early last night but couldn't bear the thought of sleeping and not being present in Paris. I wrote Post Cards, but the Post Office is closed today & I also have no idea how to decipher what the signs say. All I need are stamps- but that is apparently a task that is above the degree of understanding that I have for the French Language.
I wanted to find the store where I bought my ring last time I was here. Charlie and I happened upon it randomly & then spent our final day trying to locate it once again. It seems only fitting that I replicate my previous final day. This time though, I looked it up. I had the business card glued into my journal, the same one I brought with me. So yes, I have an online and tangible journal, both are honest in different ways. Even in the tangible one I don't admit things in it. Sometimes my thoughts are too heavy for memories. They don't need to be scrawled in a ledger.
I was set to meet Joseph for dinner, he works & American Apparel & was getting off at 7:30. I took the transit back down to the Pompidou, where the ring, American Apparel, vintage clothing & Le Pain Quotidien are located. Nicole, my best friend, and I always eat at Pain du Quotidien in Pasadena (when she lived there). Last time I was here, I saw it & took a photo. I figure it's time for me to eat there. It was exactly the same as Pasadena, only moderately more French. The communal table & other individual tables were all downstairs. We descended a helix of smooth stone steps. The menu was similar, but had more options & the food was better. The same rusty tractor seats were mounted on the wall. They didn't have organic cloth napkins.
The Jewelry shop was closed- maybe for the better? I window shopped.
I saw Hotel DeVille & the Pompidou & other things I can't really remember or pronounce. I went thrift shopping & found shirts I wanted, but then realized I didn't have my credit card & still needed to get dinner.
I bought 3 necklaces-one silver collar & two long gold necklaces. I sat at a restaurant for a while & had a Merlot Rose, but the waiter didn't understand the way I said "Merlot" and that saddened me. I saw him fight with the other waiter to bring me the check, that delighted me. They gave me happy hour rates, I gave them a 50% tip.
Girls in Paris don't wear makeup, or rather, they wear the type of makeup that makes you think they aren't wearing makeup. My makeup is dark & smoky. People know I am not Parisian. I like being different while still feeling a part of something. I have always relished in the security of being an outsider. I like the constant of knowing that I only slightly belong. That has been a beautiful & dependable thing.
Had a few coffees at two different places. Each time someone asked me for a cigarette and then asked me where I am from. I am starting to think there is a cigarette grabbing posse that collects information for France. A cigarette census, if you will.
I picked Joseph up form American Apparel at 7:00, and waited for him until around 7:45, just watching people milling about their apartments: watching TV, drinking bottled water, watching me watching them. I desperately want to know their layout. Does everyone only have one room flats? France seems so small when I can't see inside.
We met up with Joseph's boyfriend, two two other friends I met the first night & a new friend. We went to an organic place to eat brilliantly delicious food. I had a mushroom loaf (veg meatloaf), with pureed parsnip and potato. It was bliss. We talked a lot about Brazil, where one of the guys is from, Paris and America. We talked about media, art, music & the differences between our cultures. We talked about my desires to come back, to get them to come to SF, to rearrange my life. We talked about schooling, about the differences in achieving degrees & societal ambiguities.
I asked them to assess me & tell me what I was doing wrong when it came to looking Parisian. They said: you have too many piercings, you wear too dark of eye makeup-wear no makeup...no! wear a lot of makeup so it makes you look like you wear no makeup, no girl ever wears gel in her hair, it's always soft- you're dress is ok...
I interrupted them: This dress is from Paris, it's vintage from the 60's.
[uproar of laughter] ok ok. well then, that's why the dress is ok, we can tell.
So only my Parisian dress is OK, everything else has to go. Apparently my thought that I was assimilating was wrong. But, that's ok. I sort of liked that. I try to step out of what is expected in San Francisco, and in Paris it is even easier to cross the line. If I ever decided to live here, I understand that behavior would promise that I would never assimilate. So strange that we are not so different, we share so much, and yet homogeny is still stronger than individuality.
We ordered desert. I ordered a creme brule. Waiter said, "3 Crème brûlée" and Arthur retorted, "no, 2 Crème brûlée & 1 Crem-Broolay" I do love the banter. They are lovely & inviting & treated me like one of their own. Something I was not expecting in Paris.
I took the subway home for the last time, walked the way home for the last time, went to bed for the last time-this time-in Paris. I packed everything up & went to bed.
The next morning, this morning, I attempted to send Post Cards but needed stamps. I have no-freaking-idea how to buy stamps in a Post Office in Paris. I don't even understand what line to go in in a Paris Post Office. Also, are there ATMs there? That's not nice. I was trying to buy stamps out of them. That didn't work.
One last croissant & it was down two stations to Gare du Nord. One journey complete, one journey begins.
Amsterdam: what-what.
The last moments of my apartment, right after I cleaned, right after I left the keys on the desk: