A Bon Week-End Indeed!

I just realized, thanks to a savvy classmate, that I have been freaking out since yesterday about being behind on some readings that I thought were due today. Turns out, they aren't due until next week, so I have a rare treat this afternoon: free time! That means I get to spend it catching you up on our recent happenings here in fair Pareee. Currently, I'm sitting in quiet green garden behind a tiny church that is somehow crammed in next to one of my school buildings. I have my back against an accommodating tree, a falling leaf just hit me in the head and then a butterfly landed on my leg. There's no reason I shouldn't be able to produce some decent writing under these circumstances.

So beginning with some exciting news, Charlie had his first chef gig on Saturday. He worked as part of a team of chefs in conjunction with the French Slow Foods Movement to provide lunch for a local film festival. I didn't think I'd actually get to see Charlie working, but I went anyway. As I was standing in line for food wondering where the hell, if anywhere, I was supposed to pay for this meal, I saw my chef emerge from a building nearby fully decked out in his Cordon Bleu regalia. I managed to capture his attention and went to ask how I was supposed to go about actually tasting the food. He asked one of the Slow Food people about it, who replied in some French I didn't understand. One of Charlie's schoolmates interpreted for her: We're gonna hook you up. She asked me what I wanted to eat and I said, "beef," so she brought me a slice of beef terrine (like meatloaf, only better) and some potato salad. 'Twas divine, of course.

The chefs trying to decipher the non-functioning deep-fryer.

Le chef and his beignets

The culinary artists line up for their ovation.

After the meal, the chefs were introduced to the patrons and received a generous applause. I stood by beaming with pride as people shouted "Bravo!" and approached Charlie and the other chefs to thank them personally. 

During the luncheon, I took the opportunity to explore the neighborhood of Place d'Aligre. There was a large produce market in the area at the tail end of its work day. While I walked between the food stalls the walls literally fell down around me as vendors hurriedly dismantled their mobile storefronts. From all sides there were shouts of "Un euro!" as they tried desperately to sell off the remainder of their products before all was said and done. You could even get TWO melons for UN euro!

Although I was tempted, I declined to do any shopping because I would soon have to go meet my class for a museum tour and didn't really want to be carrying around a bunch of fruits and veggies. Instead I picked out a lively cafe in which to sit for a while, facing the street, and ordered a delicious coffee. As I sat there I watched what was left of the market disintegrate into stacks of crates and organic detritus on the ground. I also watched a large male pigeon court a female by ruffling up his purple neck feathers and fanning his tail out, dragging it along the pavement behind him. She wasn't interested so he gave up. Later, the woman at the table next to me instructed her daughter to politely thank the waiter. She approached him and said, "Merci," to which he replied, "De rien, princesse!"

Well-caffeinated and full of beignets, courtesy of Charlie, I headed for the metro to meet my class at the Musée de l'histoire et des cultures de l'immigration. It was a little bit melancholy and confusing and I think we were all secretly looking forward to visiting the aquarium in the building's basement afterward. We barely made it to the first tank of small fish and crustaceans before we regressed into ten year-olds, oohing and ahhing at all of the colorful and unusual aquatic creatures. After the aquarium my classmate and I discussed how it could only be better if we also had balloons and ice cream in hand.

My feet were killing me by this point (when aren't they?), but I decided to tough it out and head to a nearby wine store that supposedly carried non-alcoholic French wine. Most people have never heard of such a thing and I have already endured plenty of strange looks when asking for it at cellars. I entered the small boutique, looked around for a few minutes and then eventually worked up the nerve to ask. The man happily obliged, asking which kind I wanted (red, white, etc). "All of them," I said and walked out of the shop triumphantly, burdened down by a five-bottle assortment. When I finally got home, I found the chef dead asleep, recovering from his busy day. We opted not to cook and instead went to a street-corner kebab shop a couple blocks away. When we got home we devoured our sandwiches grec and pommes frites with some of the newly-acquired red wine. It was perfect.

On Sunday I slept in and awoke to our chef preparing some fried potatoes, eggs and bacon - American breakfast! He had also stopped at the boulangerie to pick up some pain au chocolat for me and a butter croissant for him. What a sweetheart! After breakfast we decided to head out to Montmarte Cemetery, just northwest of our neighborhood. We were looking for a quiet place to smoke (Charlie) and read (Me).

I'm not sure if I have ever mentioned this to anyone back home, but we live just a stone's throw from the red light district, home of the Moulin Rouge. Here you will see the usual red light attractions: strip clubs, sex shops, live sex shows, etc. Although I have never experienced it, Charlie reports that when he has ventured through this area alone he is often invited inside certain establishments by hookers and their pimps. Despite what you might expect, the area is not actually that bad... at least in the day time. There are certainly just as many wandering tourists looking for the Moulin Rouge or heading toward or from Montmarte and Sacre Coeur as there are perverts looking for a good time.

For our more adventurous visitors, we found this quaint little hotel nestled between Pussy's and Souvenirs Sexy. Just say the word and I'll book you a room. ;)

Le Moulin Rouge: We have not been to any shows here and probably never will. I checked out their website and they just look a lot like large-production Vegas shows (with boobies). They also cost about $100, which is way out of our budget. I'm sure there are cheaper boobies in the neighborhood.

After a short walk we arrived a Montmarte Cemetery. 

I was surprised to find that a road had been built right over the top of it.

There was no portable map available, so we quickly consulted the map at the entrance and made a list of the folks we wanted to see (they are in the video below). As usual, there was a great mix of old and new, simple and lavish all crammed in next to and on top of one another.

I think this might say "Sepulchre Delamare Bichsel"

A view from above

If you lie there long enough, a giant tree will grow through you.

From what I understand, the folks at the top of this headstone survived the holocaust. The people in the photograph at the bottom did not.

Spider webs and dried flowers inside a tomb.

One thing I loved about this cemetery was that there were a bunch of resident cats wandering around. I saw one drinking out of the sink in the public bathroom and a few more throughout. There was one large striped one that I saw several times, moving furtively between the stones as if it was hunting. I called to it and it ignored me, obviously concentrating.

Turns out he was looking for this guy: "Oh shit, he found me!"

The name is carved diagonally across the nearest stone.

Looking up the hill.

Vaslav Nijinsky, a Russian ballet dancer and choreographer.

Charlie commiserates.

Tired of boring headstones? Build your own personal tiny cathedral!

We did eventually smoke and read.

After a couple of hours in the cemetery, our tummies were starting to talk to us, so we found our way to rue Abbesses to seek out a yummy lunch. I had been down this street before with my class during a neighborhood tour and had noticed that there were many decent-looking restaurants. We decided on one that was packed with French people, taking it as a good sign. We both ordered steak, Charlie's came with Béarnaise sauce and mine with Roquefort. They both tasted great, but my steak was so tough I could hardly cut into it.

I consoled myself later with some creme caramel gelato just a few storefronts down the street. After that, we went home so that I could get my ass to work on the never-ending reading that seems to be defining my graduate school life.