Having lived in Paris for roughly
four months (28 weeks, 122 days, 2,928 hours, 175,680 minutes, 10,540,800
seconds) it is no wonder that I gathered an extensive list of memories that
will last me a lifetime and beyond. The experiences I had in Paris can never be
fully explained, nor can they be replicated, but I can try and do my best to
quickly try and give you an idea of what stood out to me as memorable,
especially my memories from living in the Cambronne apartment. One thing needs
to be explained first about said apartment. I think the apartment complex has a
name, RDC, but it will be always known as Cambronne (even though that is the
metro stop it is named after, and the closet metro stop (even though, la
Motte-Picquette-Grenelle is a lovely 5 minute walk away)).
Besides being very small, like our
toilet room resembled that of Harry Potter’s bedroom under the staircase and
our single room housed two twin beds pushed together (not because my roommate
and I liked to cuddle but because otherwise there was no room to walk around
the beds and get into the closet), our apartment was very classic and filled
with old-lady trinkets, including a locked china cabinet that then become the
holder of all things to be brought home as presents, as well as a poor excuse
for a shower with a showerhead on the moving wall attachment in the middle of
the tub and no shower curtain so you had to shower crouched and facing the door
which usually resulted in vast amounts of water just about EVERYWHERE. There
was also the lovely washer and dryer all put in one machine which made crazy
air siren noises and had no lint trap which then meant that the lint was all
over the bathroom so we eventually gave up on drying clothes. On the walls were
hung fancy-smancy looking oil paintings, on the ground woven tapestries that
had seen better days and a vase in the corner that was covered the majority of
the time with a lovely Oktoberfest hat. And I might as well mention the TV,
which was very hard to figure out – I struggle back in the States with TVs with
multiple remotes, so really, it is easy to see how I would struggle with the
French TV that always had various remotes. Oh and the silk couch, the very
small silk couch. Not sure what else to say besides that we were told that she
adored the silk couch the most out of the whole apartment and that we had to
take very good care of it. But, it was the perfect sized couch for Kat, who
slept on it several times. And while I was cleaning, found out that it is
actually a pull out bed!!! Who would have known? Finally, the temperamental
outlets and adapters. Not sure what to say about them, except that they were
temperamental and liked to throw temper tantrums all at the same time, which
was a VERY big inconvenience. All of this added up and tremendously added to
its charm and quaintness, so on to the memorable memories that graced that
apartment.
Being conservative and quiet
college students 99% of the time meant that we required that 1% of time to rock
out, and what better place than the very small Parisian elevator. So whenever
the elevator was on the ground floor, we would pile in, wait until the doors
closed (to make sure no one would join us) and then we would have a legit
30-second dance party and no one was the wiser. To anyone that saw us, we were
just normal people riding in a normal elevator, but to us, the second those
doors closed and the small box disguised as an elevator, it was a dance club
filled with our very own music.
Honestly, I am not sure what next
to write about. There is just so much, I don’t want to write about all of it
right away, and it also makes me sad to see that all my memories can take up
such little space when they took up so much time and seem so much more
important in my mind then they do on paper. I guess I can go back to the music
topic real quick and explain about how our old-lady apartment was down the
street from not one, but two, night clubs, which I find hysterical. But fist, I
need to mention the fact that at all hours of the day (morning, mid-day and
night), and scout’s honor, I’m not kidding, cars would drive by blaring all
different types of music, which once again, resulted in more 30-second dance
parties, especially if the light at the end of the block was red and they had
to stay put for a bit. Now, on to the nightclubs. Oh, where to start, I guess
with their names because their names are just as funny as the idea of dear ol’
sweet Cambronne being down the street from them. They were Backup and Chez
Alize. It was always weird to be walking down the street during the day and to
go past these quiet, unlit buildings, when walking by at night, there was
always a line out of the door and down the street and if we were lucky enough,
and there was no line, and the door was propped open on good evenings, then we
were granted a glimpse into the waiting room/front lobby of Backup, which was
made really awkward when you made eye-contact with the guy behind the desk. I
guess right here would be a good time to talk about creepy guys on the street
hitting on you. This fact just became a way of life in Paris. The occasional “Madamemoiselle! Madamemoiselle!” with a
guy coming after/towards you was rewarded with a death glare and the
always-applicable action of just do your life (if you are on the metro, do the
metro, if you are walking, do the walk). I mean it took some getting use to,
and I’m not sure I ever truly got use to it, but it definitely kind of became a
part of the norm.
I feel so bad that this blog entry is so long, yet there are
just so many memories from Paris. Since having covered the set-up of our
apartment, the various nightclubs nearby, I guess, it is only possible to talk
about what went on in the apartment building. The first being that about three
weeks into my time abroad, the apartment a few floors directly above us
happened to acquire an infant and a dog. AT. THE. SAME. TIME. Do you know how
annoying a continuously crying infant and barking dog can be? I mean. COME ON.
Aren’t there parents around to tend to said infant and dog? At all hours of the
day these two were interchangeably and sometimes at the same time, continuously
screaming, wailing, barking. At 8am when you got ready for class, they were
howling. At noon, when you came back for lunch, they were howling. At 5pm when
you got back from class, they were howling. At 9pm when you were having dinner,
they were howling. At midnight, they were howling. At 2am, when you finally
went to bed, they were still howling. At 4am when you randomly awoke to find
yet again, a howling infant and dog. And the cycle would repeat. So, I ask
again, WHERE ARE THE PARENTS?! At the same time, there appeared to always be
one apartment above us that was always having a party. So, I ask, why weren’t
we ever invited?
And maybe the answer to that
question lies in the fact that we were always in our apartment having our own
type of party full of our own special drinks and activities. Our new drink,
that we like to take credit for, the reinvented French screwdriver aka vodka
and Orangina. Way yummier than regular screwdrivers. And then our intense
conversations covering such subjects as Ryan Gosling and his blind football
league, the strip teasing required for OFII appointment, how I would throw my
back out via being a stripper, which would lead to conversations on how to be
sexy which would lead to a discussion on how we think that while listening to
our iPod on the metro being a tripper and pole dancing would be really a good
idea, lots of fun and REALLY easy until you realize that that whole idea is so
not a good idea. And sadly, our discussions usually ended with how impressed we
were with how good of YouTube ads France has.
These “parties” aka conversations
usually took place at the kitchen table, Kat and I seated across from each
another on our respective computers, typing away, when all of a sudden one of
us would remark how we have lost the inability to type or speak in English and
how everything wants to come out in French, or vice versa. Yet, it is usually
only a problem when we are pressed for time and trying to finish homework with
a severe lack of motivation. Here would probably be a good time to mention my
journal. A journal that basically turned into a scrapbook, and a wonderful
scrapbook at that. The best part being the sample cards from Abercrombie &
Fitch that made the whole thing smell wonderful. And each time the journal was
opened, a waft of A&F scent floated out of it, making both of us laugh and
chuckle about the A&F store and how grandiose and over the top it is.
Even though these last two subjects
don’t really go very well together, I am throwing them together just for the
fact that they are best summarized at the end because they happened at the end
or throughout my time abroad. So, the first being that of the behavior of French
children versus the rest of the European children. I don’t know if it is the
parenting (or lack thereof) or being raised in France or if it is just that I
am way more observant of the children around me in Paris, but all that I can
say is French children are way more ill-behaved, ill-mannered and annoying then
the rest of the European children. But, you can’t blame all of that on just the
children, clearly the parents have some role in this. What was the most obvious
difference between French parents and other European parents was their manner
of handling their child’s meltdowns and temper tantrums. I found that the
French just ignored their child’s disruptive behavior, no matter how loud,
rude, annoying and DISRUPTIVE it was to other people around them (be it on the
street, in a restaurant, in a store etc.), but on the other hand, when I
traveled outside of France, parents knew how to discipline their child without
drawing attention to themselves and they handled their child’s meltdown, temper
tantrum etc. with calm, ease and generally level-headedness. If the child had a
meltdown in a restaurant, the parent removed said child from the premises until
the child calmed down, ensuring that the people around them could eat in peace
and quiet. Well, enough on that topic, maybe something more festive and
exciting? CHRISTMAS MARKETS! If I really tried, I could leave it at that, and
basically that is all I would need to say about that subject because these
Christmas markets full of Christmas trees, Christmas lights, Christmas cheer,
and most certainly, Christmas hot mulled wine, le vin chaud, glüwhein,
basically speak for themselves and that essence cannot be captured in pictures
no matter how hard I tried, so I guess we will just have to settle for my
mediocre pictures, while I reminisce on the memories and recommend that if
possible, you make it over to Europe for any, if not all, of the Christmas
markets.
