Istanbul Photos & Video!

  

Our Turkish baked potato, café overlooking Istanbul; shellfish and rice; the Blue Mosque; overlooking Asia on the Topkapi Palace terrace; breakfast at Mado; with Eva Mendes on palace grounds; below - Tolga divining our "fortunes." 

March 30-31, 2009

We began the next day with a Turkish breakfast at Mado - meet, cheese, bread, eggs, and veggies (including olives!) The emphasis on fresh vegetables (including squash) and healthy basics reminded me of my family's traditional Lebanese fare. Many of the dishes indeed overlapped. I was also quite happy to know of a culture where it is acceptable to eat cheese for breakfast (and thus vindicate some of my "heretical" eating habits!) 

We then embarked on our journey to The Blue Mosque. Istanbul has no "true" city center besides a sprawling patchwork of intersecting neighborhoods. The traffic situation is also complete anarchy: Baha and Tolga repeatedly mentioned their fear of driving on (and crossing!) streets overrun with too many vehicles, and not enough order in the way of traffic signals and lane dividers. (I was, in fact, the unfortunate victim of such carelessness, when our taxi driver took his foot off of the parking break and let the vehicle roll down the hill onto me at 2 miles per hour as I walked behind the car!) . . . 

Once at the Blue Mosque, we luxuriated in the sun on its hundreds-of-years-old courtyard and gardens, having to linger outside because of the services inside. We could, however, hear the call to pray on the loudspeakers outside the Mosque. We then ventured over to the San Sofia Church, which was made into a museum to settle the simultaneous Christian and Muslim claim to its history (or so Tolga, my walking tour guide, told me). Outside, we enjoyed more tulip-filled courtyards. Apparently (also according to Tolga), Istanbul used to be the tulip capital until Amsterdam claimed the title.

On our way to the next attraction, we stopped for freshly-squeezed fruit juice from a Turkish man who made us promise we would return for some "Turkish hospitality." Finally, we went to the Topkapi Palace: home to the Ottoman sultans and an amazing view over the Marmara Sea and Bosphorus. Inside the Palace are museums jealously guarding Ottoman Empire treasures, including an 86-carat diamond.

I feel extremely guilty to admit that, as exciting as all of this was, one of the most exciting parts of our trip took the form of good old-fashioned celebrity-stalking. After using a restroom on the palace grounds, an older American tourist informed us that Eva Mendes (aka American movie star) had been using the restroom stall next to us. We waited "casually"  outside the restroom, attempting to catch a glimpse of the star's exit, to no avail. We thus ventured back outside, where Brittany glimpsed Ms. Mendes attempting to keep a low profile with sunglasses, weathered jeans and a scarf as she her private tour guide showed her the palace grounds. After several minutes of not-so-secret stalking, we asked her to take a photo with us, and she agreed: as long as we were discreet - she was undercover, of course!!

We next stopped back at the juice stand to let our Turkish juice-stand-owner follow through on his promise of "hospitality." We received free apple teas and conversation: a father and businessman now, it appears he had some rough early years after spending time in an Amsterdam prison for "hitting" a policeman. . . . Hmmmm . . . 

After stopping at the requisite Grand Bazaar (formerly prestigious but now, according to Tolga and Baha, "only for tourists") we took a 20-minute ferry ride to Asia. Istanbul (and Turkey) spans two continents: Europe and Asia. We happily seized the opportunity to experience a uniquely Istanbul treat: "going to Asia" for dinner (even if Istanbul's Asian side merely appeared a slightly-more-modern version of Istanbul-Europe). We had dinner there, another label-evading meat-and-vegetables-concoction and the storied Turkish Coffee (my favorite!) for dessert. Tolga attempted to tell our "fortunes" (apparently a Turkish tradition) by tipping over  our coffee cups and reading the shape of the dried residue at the bottom. Our fortunes were hilarious, if not *quite* accurate . . . 

After the ferry back from Asia, the boys took us to their favorite Istanbul neighborhood -- Taxsim, "the most modern city center in Istanbul." They warned us it would be slow on a Monday night compared to Saturdays, where one could barely make one's way through the streets. It was, nonetheless, extremely lively, and the most "European-appearing" of the neighborhoods I had visited in Istanbul, with quaint, cobblestone streets and narrow, hilly paths. However, it was a dichotomy of cultures: European-appearing, but Eastern-sounding: as we made our way through the quaint streets, we could hear the Muslim call to prayer in the background. Just down the street from the European Topshop, Mango, Zara, and Nike stores was a Mosque calling conservative Muslims to prayer. Finally, after wondering the streets and ogling Turkish Delights (also, according to Tolga, only for tourists) we settled on a café for drinks. What originally appeared to be a nondescript apartment building was, after ascending six flights of stairs, a posh café-bar (named "Leb-iderya") with huge glass windows affording an expansive view over most of Istanbul and the sea beyond. Despite the slight chill, we nursed our expensive (for Istanbul) drinks to enjoy conversation and a beautiful view. 

After the drinks, Tolga and Baha decided it was time for "drunk stuffs" (their wording for what one eats after a night out - usually along the lines of greasy frites or crepes). But this is Turkey, and even supposedly "greasy" fare - or what should be greasy, by other cultures' standards - was here nothing more than a baked potato and fish (albeit fried)! Here's the story: we first stopped by a late-night restaurant replete with a baked-potato bar. It had the most enormous baked potatoes I have ever seen (a prerequisite for this type of snack, as Tolga boasted, because it must fit a myriad divergent toppings!) We picked from about 20 different toppings, including traditional American baked-potato toppings like cheese and bacon, but also non-traditional ones as well: creamed corn, olives, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, beet salad. . . . We chose what we *thought* would be a disgusting concoction (and it was topped off with mayonnaise and ketchup, no less) but that turned out to be one of the most delicious "snacks" I have ever consumed in my life. Next, we were taken to a cobblestone neighborhood selling seafood "street" food. First, there were shellfish stuffed with spicy rice. Next up: fried fish on a stick, topped with cream sauce and shoved into a roll. Finally, a sandwich filled with spiced ground meat . . . delicious, until the boys informed us we were eating sheep's intestines. Yum?

Our final day took us to Cagaloglu Hamami, a 300-year-old Turkish Bath, which for only 40 euro boasts a scrub, massage, and bath (which Michelle and Brittany inform me would cost upwards of $200 in the US). It was "not very far . . . but not even close," ie., how Baha and Tolga hilariously described its location, so we had to take a taxi from the city to get there. I had to leave that day to catch my flight back to Paris (Michelle and Brittany were on another flight thanks to Czech airlines' mistake - I believe this is the same airline that lost Beth's luggage on her way from Greece to Paris. The luggage somehow ended up in, of all places . . . Egypt.)

Sunday, March 29, 2009

The story of how our Istanbul trip came to be is worth retelling. We met two Turkish brothers, Bahadir and Tolga, university students, in Amsterdam. We talked for about 30 minutes at "The Smallest Pub in Amsterdam" and exchanged contact information. After some Facebook messages, we told them we were thinking about visiting Istanbul. They invited us to stay with them, which is a bit crazy. Even they knew that: as Baha said to Michelle on the taxi ride to their house, "I say to Tolga yesterday, how do they know to trust us?" Good question - but as we all agreed, it only takes a few minutes for intuition to tell whether someone is a kind person or not (of course there are exceptions, and thankfully, this wasn't one of them). Immediately after meeting them in Amsterdam, we privately thought that if Turkey is reflected in the sweet nature of its denizens, it must be a wonderful place - so, to Turkey it was.

We took a taxi to their house, noticing the dogs and cats roaming the streets (as if squirrels or rodents). Istanbul is full of stray animals and the city and its inhabitants takes care of them (instead of sending them to shelters). Their home was just a one-bedroom apartment inside a shared house, but they used the space extremely efficiently. It contained a futon, a bed, and an extra mattress - fitting exactly five people. The boys were fully prepared with sheets, pillows, towels, and a "guest-first" policy - we told them their mother raised them well. (They are Rotary Club members! Yes, they have that in Turkey! They also, hilariously, owned an American Janet Evanovich book, which is part of  a literary series aimed at teenage girls. Apparently, while in New Jersey one summer, Baha thought it would be a great way to brush up on his English - obviously having no idea that he would later host three American girls who would tease him about this particular literary selection. =) ) They also invited us to everything that was in their refrigerator, assuming that we had already peered inside. This is one of the things I love about Mediterranean/Eastern European culture: a "what is yours, is mine" mantra, something that would never happen in many American homes.  The house was situated on the side of a hill overlooking the city, water, and highway. Istanbul's hills, ports, and bridges reminded me a lot of San Francisco, and its crazy, laneless traffic reminded me of Athens. 

The boys immediately took us for traditional Turkish fare at a local university restaurant called the Wonderlands. The food was comprised of spicy meats, vegetables, and bread soaked with sauce: delicious. During the trip, we had tried to pinpoint "exactly" what "Turkish food" was The boys could not tell us, pointing to a variety of varying fare. We finally realized that this would become a metaphor for Istanbul itself, a conglomeration of East and West, conservative and trendy, European and Asian: burka-wearing women walked alongside liberal European-esque college students who had just returned from a night of partying. Indeed, as the boys repeatedly tried to impress upon us, Istanbul escapes pat, cognizable categories, and can best be described by its unwillingness to bow to any one culture or religion. After all,as as Tolga boasted as we toured around Istanbul later that weekend, Americans looked to the old Ottoman Empire as an example of how to keep together an empire comprised of myriad divergent cultures for hundreds of years, with minimal strife.

After dinner, we walked through the Bogazici University campus, which looked exactly like an historical, East-Coast American University. Apparently it was founded by an American in the 1800s and was dedicated to English-speaking higher education. Finally, we walked through Bebek (meaning "baby"), a wealthy Istanbul enclave overlooking the water, past docked boats, little shops and ended up, of all places, at Starbucks! This has to have been the most well-placed Starbucks I had ever seen: its interiors were standard, but it had an adjoining back deck that overlooked the Bosphorus, the strait connecting the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. I have to say that, given my penchant for studying at Starbucks, if I had were an Istanbul-ite, my grades would be off-the-charts!

Saturday, March 28, 2009

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Counterclockwise from left: making a wish on the Charles Bridge; our Czech hosts; the old square; a tree decorated for the storied "Easter Market."




We arrived in Prague at 11 p.m. Saturday night for our 14-hour layover. After the airline cancelled our original flight, we hoped the airline would keep its promise to provide a free hotel for the night - which, after much cajoling (thanks to an ingenious Brittany and lawyer Michelle) it did. Finally, we checked into our hotel, right across the street from the Prague airport. After some primping, we hopped into a taxi for our whirlwind 14-hour, nighttime Prague tour. 

We hadn't expected to accomplish much in 14 hours, but at the very least, we wanted some traditional Czech nourishment and some beautiful sights. Prague is a beautiful city, with centuries-old medieval buildings, and a Town Square dating from at least the 1400s. The Czech food was more difficult to find. By the time we were dropped off in the city center, it was after midnight, and we were unable to find any restaurant with late-night food. The streets were filled with drunk European tourists who were of little help, as they weren't natives.

We finally found some Czech boys walking around with a coveted pizza box, and - lo and behold - they were willing to guide us to the Holy Grail: Czech late-night food. Dennis and Peter (Americanized versions of their Czech names) guided us to a restaurant off the tourist-track. It served Czech pizza, which we grabbed and immediately brought with us to their favorite Prague sports bar, called Non Stop (Europeans have a thing for incorporating random English words into their restaurant titles and slang). Beers were only 1 euro apiece - unheard of in Paris (or any other Western city, for that matter). We had a hilarious conversation, made all the funnier by the boys' English gaffes (For example, at one point, Peter meant to use the American slang term "smashed" - ie., drunk - but instead said "smashed up." We explained "smashed up" is what happens when you're smashed and you walk down the street and bang into something - which he promptly, ironically, did  - by walking into a pole shortly thereafter). 

Afterwards, the boys decided we needed to see the Charles Bridge, which spans the Vltava River and affords spectacular city views. The bridge contains the Statue of St. John of Nepomuck, and it's traditional to touch the statute while making a wish and gazing out across the river (it sounds so romantic!) We made our wishes, and despite the late (early) hour and a luxurious gratis hotel room awaiting, let the boys take us to a "must see" Prague nightclub, which had multiple rooms ranging from modern to kitsch. The boys insisted on ordering us champagne, but finally, we came to our senses and hailed a cab back to our hotel. We awoke after the standard two hours of sleep, stuffed our faces with as much free hotel breakfast we could gather, and made our way across the street to the airport for our connecting flight to Istanbul.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Last night, Michelle and I attended a dinner-and-cupcake party at Stephanie's apartment, which, luckily, is in my same neighborhood (so I finally wasn't late for once!) She had invited vacationing college friends and more exchange students in the Nanterre-American Law school dual-degree program. One conversation we had was particularly interesting. Michelle and I were talking with Stephanie's friend Sangwani about the convenience of purses. Stephanie had been trying to get Sangwani to take her leftovers (I tease her that she is the quintissential "grandmother," always trying to make sure everyone has enough to eat). Sangwani, however, had no way to carry them home. Michelle and I suggested he find a "murse" (read: male purse, looks like a book bag but smaller - all the rage in Europe). Sangwani was appalled. The conversation proceeded thus:

Me: Well, how are you going to carry things around without some sort of bag?
Michelle: I guess that's why every man needs a woman. Because every woman has a purse.
Sangwani: I completely agree with that statement.
Michelle: but if a man doesn't have a woman? Then obviously he needs his own "murse."
Me: Or maybe the man already has his "murse" and that's why he doesn't have a woman.
Michelle: It's like the chicken or the egg. What came first? The Murse or the Purse?

Sunday, March 22, 2009

On Saturday night, Amanda had left but Michelle's guests hadn't. So we decided to try Kong, a trendy, normally too-nice-for me restaurant with breathtaking Paris views. Featured on the last season of Sex and the City (where Carrie meets Alexander Petrovsky's ex-wife for lunch!), it was a low-lit, trendily-decorated space occupying the top two floors of a high-rise building overlooking the Seine. They sat us at a table for five, and seated a table of five well-dressed guys right next to us. We all laughed, thinking Kong was trying to do a little "match-making." Well, the joke was on us - every single one of them were gay - albeit very fun dining companions. The best part: the "All-Chocolate Dessert," a deconstructed chocolat fondant served with chocolate ice cream. Yummy!

After dinner, we decided to take the metro to the Latin Quarter. We had to switch trains at Chatelet-Les Halles, the largest (and dirtiest) metro station in Paris, containing its fair share of crazies and vagrants. I believe this is the infamous metro station that I dubbed, circa my family's 2006 Paris trip, the "poop"  station, so-named for its extreme lack of cleanliness. We were walking along, minding our own business, when a man LITERALLY jumped out in front of us, arms splayed, singing "I'm FLYING!" We quickly concluded that although slightly crazy, he was harmless. So we laughed along as he told us in a slurred voice that he was Jamaican and now lives in Paris, and wanted to sing us songs. We then attempted to move around him - not an easy feat when one is on a narrow platform, sandwiched between a wall and a train. Jamaican Man then decided that it would be a fun game to stand in front of us, blocking our path down the platform. So, one-by-one, Brittany, Michelle, and Michelle's two friends all managed to cleverly get past him. During that time, I was still hovering behind them, too shocked (and laughing too hard) to move, and afraid that his dirty hands would try to touch me. It took a good three minutes before I summoned up the courage to run past him, laughing hysterically (if not laughing, I would have been crying). Finally, I barely got past - when he apparently took a liking to us and started following us down the moving walkway. Between swigs of beer, he sang us showtunes among a myriad other, less-recognizable songs. We were fine, however - five girls versus one, extremely inebriated man  . . . as long as he kept to his own personal space, we were fine. . . . Not so much. He then decided to lean in and touch Brittany's cheek with one extremely unsanitary finger. At that point, we decided we had no choice but to bid Mr. Crazy adieu. We had to outwit him with a plan - and fast. Finally, realizing that he had just been wandering around the metro station aimlessly, I asked him "Where's your train? You don't want to miss it!" He tipsily agreed, and wandered down a random train's platform while waving at us, presumably to terrorize another group of unsuspecting commuters. We got on the train and inspected Brittany's face, remarking how - having observed many a Parisian man urinate on the street - he probably had unhygienic bodily fluids on his hands. Brittany, in her usually open, relaxed demeanor, said "well, everybody poops!" "True," I countered, "but not everyone has Hepatitis B!" Fortunately, one of Michelle's visitors had an anti-bacterial wipe in her purse and we were able to wipe the offending bacteria off of Britt's face before we arrived in the Latin Quarter.

In the Latin Quarter, we took Michelle's guests to our favorite piano bar with our favorite Turkish bartenders, Takis and Ali. As soon as we walked in, we were shushed by the restaurant patrons. We soon realized that the bar was so quiet because the guy on stage was about to propose to his girlfriend. It was one of the cutest things we had ever experienced! After he proposed, the whole bar clapped and the pinao man sang a song in the couple's honor. We sat next to some British guys, and a very drunk British girl who kept stealing pictures off of the walls. The songs were classics - everything from jazz to "Grease" to Frank Sinatra - everyone joined into a rousing rendition of "New York, New York," and I had a pang of homesickness for the US. We were apparently having TOO much fun, as, amazingly, a (presumably Parisian) girl next to us decided to SHUSH us . . . in a BAR!!! Someone needs to get out a little more . . . 

Saturday, March 21, 2009

This week, both Michelle and I had American visitors, and we decided to ensure they got the most out of their Paris experience by sampling quality French cuisine. Yesterday, after work, Michelle threw a dinner party in her studio apartment with a modern balcony affording a view over half the Paris skyline, the Gare d'Austerlitz, and the Jardin des Plantes. We attempted to show them the "usual" Parisian lifestyle - according to our French friends (and I had noticed this from previous French trips) it's more common for friends to get together for a dinner party than go out to a restaurant because they're so expensive here. Instead, we had roast chicken, sausage, salad, vegetables, fresh bread, cheeses, and desserts. The next night, Amanda, Brittany and I met up with Michelle and her visitors at Restaurant Jules in the 2nd arrondissement. Our French friends were unable to recommend a restaurant as students their age never go out to nice restaurants, so we took matters into our own hands. Brittany used her friend Google for a recommendation, and we loved the experience. Many of us ordered duck confit and wine, which melted in our mouths! 

Both Michelle and I also had a Number One Priority on our agendas: to show our guests the Perfect Nutella Crepe. I have experience in ordering the perfect crepe, and, not only have I tracked down the best crepe locations in Paris, but have been known to tell the crepe-makers to "make it fresh," or put "extra Nutella on it" (sometimes to the chagrin of the crepe-maker . . . a.k.a. my family's visit in 2006). On one of the first days of her visit, Amanda and I traipsed up the Champs-Elysées and, despite having dinner reservations in a couple of hours, decided we needed a "snack" - and Amanda decided it was time to have her first Nutella crepe. Unfortunately, the crepe was already-made and contained generic Nutella that dripped messily with every bite. But it made for some hilarious photos!

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Last week was Paris FASHION WEEK!!!

Upon learning that the Givenchy show was to be held right across the street from me, in a covered-market space, Brittany, Michelle and I decided to gather outside the show to watch the invitees enter, despite the fact that we didn't "technically" have an invitation . . . The second I walked onto the street, I knew I was in for a treat, as my quaint little neighborhood was transformed into a glamorous red-carpet world. Blockades of shiny black SUVS, fashion editors and socialites abounded. I even saw celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe walk into my favorite little neighborhood café, Café Crème! We stood in awe, watching designers, editors, and socialites donning the most amazing clothes I've ever seen in person. They ranged from the incredibly chic to outrageous (girl wearing masquerade mask, socialite with Michael-Jackson-esque Thriller jacket). Among the invitees were singer Kanye West and girlfriend, and the Princess of Thailand. Just as the trail of celebrities ended and the fashion show began to start (late), we ran around to the side, thinking maybe we could catch a glimpse of the show through the windows. And what did we see, but that the ENTIRE side of the building was open, closed off only by wrought-iron gates. We could see the entire show from the side, and it was amazing. Dark lights and gloomy music, a spectacle of gothic chic. When it was over, we resumed our places in front of the entrance to catch the important people walking out, and to network. As a film industry professional, Brittany was able to legitimately network with the Extra cameraman. All the celeb-stalking made us hungry and we went across the street for dinner, just in time to catch some of the models, eating their coffee and cigarettes. We made sure to get dessert to make them jealous.

The next day, I was also able to catch the Stella McCartney show in the same covered marketplace across from my apartment! Lo and behold, who did I see but Paul McCartney, proud father to Stella, fashion-designer daughter! 

Finally, I was able to LEGITIMATELY attend a fashion show, thanks to my French roommate, Emilie, who is the assistant to the creative director of Chloe, Hannah McGibbon. Chloe is one of my absolute FAVORITE designers, but is obviously out of my price range  . . . USUALLY. It just so happens that the gods were smiling down upon me! Emilie was nice enough to let me share in some of her glamorous fashion perks . . . A couple of weeks earlier, I had returned home from class to have this conversation with her . . . 

Emilie: "Est-ce que tu veux venir aux défilés Chloe avec moi?" ("Do you want to come to the Chloe fashion show with me?") (Emilie has the enviable job duty of deciding who will attend the Chloe fashion show, and doling out invitations . . . )

Me: "Quoi?" ("What? Come again?")

Emilie: "Est-ce que tu veux venir aux défilés Chloe avec moi?"

Me: "Quoi?"

 . . . and again like this, at least one more time. I understood her, but only technically . . . on a psychological level, the reality that I, Miss Suzanne Nobody, was going to get to attend a Parisian fashion show - by one of my favorite designers, no less - had taken a while to register. I was thrilled and beyond thankful. So on what would have been an otherwise average Wednesday afternoon, instead of heading home from class like the other students, I was on my way to the Tuileries gardens  to meet up with Emilie outside the entrance and receive my ticket to Chicdom . . . 

 . . . But on my way to the tents, I was stopped and interrogated by an unknown European (fashion?) television station (??). For almost 10 minutes, I was made to answer a deluge of fashion-related questions IN FRENCH, such as:

"Why did you choose that outfit to wear to the show?" (Answer: I chose leggings and a fur vest with a mini-dress and black booties because in my head it was what a fashionista wears to a fashion show . . . believe me, I had pored over my outfit choice for at least 4 hours beforehand . . . )

"Why are you wearing a mini-dress?" Is it "in" this season?" (Answer: I chose to wear a mini-dress not because it is "trendy," but because in my mind it is timeless and embodies the type of 60s-mod style that is the apex of chic, and goes well with my petite stature . . . but how do you say that all in French?)

One can only speak philosophically, in French, about the merits of pleather leggings and a minidress for so long before she runs out of things to say. I had to run, and quickly, for Emilie was to meet me at the entrance 30 minutes before the show started to give me my ticket in. Apparently, the invitation that I had gotten earlier is not enough to get in to the fashion show right away, if your invitation says "standing room." Thus, Emilie summoned me over and hustled me through the entrance by slipping me a coveted white wristband, showing security that I was VIP enough to avoid standing in the line with the other standing-room invitations. And thankfully, I might add . . . the tent was relatively small, and because I was the first one into my section, I had an amazing view for the show (and for the other "show": the designers, socialites, and fashion editors frequenting the front rows). Afterwards, guests were summoned out into an adjoining tent and treated to champagne and hors d'oeuvres!

The next perk took place a week after the fashion show: the unimaginable 70-80% off CHLOE SALE!! Amanda Morris had come to visit me in Paris that week, and since Emilie had given me an extra invitation, Amanda was my invitee. Imagine the scene: hundreds of fashionistas gather together in an (undisclosed) location in Paris, and wait in line for hours for the chance to enter Mecca: the latest Chloe designs (latest as in, at most, 1 or 2 seasons ago), in an unmarked warehouse, affordable to the average consumer. Needless to say, the security guards who were checking invitations outside the sale seemed annoyed and uncomprehending, having to deal with overzealous, fashion-obsessed French women. As Amanda observed when we were standing in line outside the entrance, they probably understood the ramifications of an 80%-off Chloe sale about as well as French fashion editors understand the Manchester United-Leeds European football rivalry. We finally made it in, and, after leaving our bags at the check-in, were primed like race-horses at the starting gate. We had a limited amount of time to fill our oversized plastic bags with a sampling of Chloe merchandise and make a mad dash to a private corner to contemplate our potential purchases. This meant getting away from the scrambling hordes of French women clawing for a Spring '08 minidress or Totally Turnlock bag. I have to say, you don't know who your true friends are until they see you at your most obsessive and psychologically unstable and still want to be friends with you - as Amanda did with me. She patiently waited as I tried on dress after dress, in an effort to find the penultimate Parisian "souvenir."

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Last night, I finally succeeded in luring Brittany, Michelle, and Stephanie to "disco night" at the Queen nightclub on the Champs-Elysees. I had loved going there during my previous stint in Paris, with its legendary 70s-80s-themed Monday nights - affectionately called "Disco Queen" - and had vowed to return at least once my second time here. The real entertainment was not the paid dancers but the French guys who apparently take disco night extremely seriously - they had grown out their 'dos to emulate 70s-afro hair, and donned the requisite polyester-and-popped collar ensembles. Speaking of creative ensembles, Stephanie started dancing so vigorously that her dress zipper broke! Not one to slink shyly away in the face of such adversity, she kept on dancing - with a scarf tied (not so discreetly) over the offending gape in her dress! Just a testament to how fun Disco Night really is . . . 

Sunday, March 1, 2009

On Saturday, we went to the Clignancourt flea market just north of Paris, and then proceeded to Michelle's house, where her French roommate, Ben, hosted a "going-away" party for her - "moving away" to another apartment in Paris, that is. The guest list included Ben, David and Nicolas (Ben's friends), Brittany, Stephanie, Anne-Sophie and Mathilde (some sweet French girls Michelle had met through a friend), and Matt, a slightly creepy guy from San Francisco that Michelle had randomly met in the metro on the way home from work Friday . . . The French guys did a great job hosting the party, with a spread of wine, French snack foods (including peanut-flavored Cheeto-ish snacks), and tons of cheese, as well as fish sticks - literally fish on a stick, but not the battered, American kind. On Sunday, a tired Michelle, Brittany and I patronized the Happy Days restaurant, intrigued by a French take on the quintessential American 50's-themed diner. It was replete with kitschy pink-and-black mod interiors and faux jukeboxes everywhere! We enjoyed the diner so much we sat and talked for two hours after finishing our meal. After all our talking, we decided we were hungry again! So we walked directly to another restaurant for sushi. . .

Feb 22

Britney, Michelle, Stephanie, and I decided to meet Michelle's roommate, Ben, at the New York Club on Friday night, since Ben's friend had organized a party there and we were on the list - or so we thought. Unfortunately, the snobby French bouncer decided there was no more list, and, eyeing us critically, decided we could not enter the club. Instead, he let Ben - the sole guy - in by himself! In the US (and usually Paris), a group of girls is virtually guaranteed entrance into any nightspot. We determined that the sole possible reason was that we were Americans, while Ben was French. Thus, we decided to venture to another club instead, an Australian bar playing early 90s American pop and filled to the brim with rowdy party-goers, where we decided to have fun anyway!

The next day, Brit, Michelle, Steph and I went to a fondue restaurant in Montmartre with Michelle's French friend, Sebastien (Sebastien used to work for the same agency Michelle does now). Sebastien brought his girlfriend, who we affectionately dubbed "The Finn" due to her Finnish heritage. This wasn't any fondue restaurant: it possessed only two tables that went wall-to-wall, so that the waiters were required to practically catapult Michelle (and any other patrons having the misfortune of sitting on the table's opposite side) over the table with a chair! Then, for 17 euros, we were treated to a glass of wine, appetizers, fondue, dessert, and yet another wine, this time served in a "biberon," or baby bottle (I hear it's to get around the wine glass-tax law?) The restaurant was quite fun and cozy due to our close proximity to the other diners, whom we quickly befriended. Interestingly enough, we were seated next to a French guy who looked exactly like Simon Camden from 7th Heaven. Even more hilarious: his French compatriots knew he looked like Simon, and knew the show and theme song.

On Sunday, despite our fatigue, we finally met the 4th girl from our Craigslist apartment search, Marjorie. She took us to a great falafel place in the Marais, where we stuffed our faces to our hearts' content, and then went to see "Ce Que Pensent Les Hommes" -  also known as "He's Just Not that Into You" - direct translation - "What Men Think." In France, popcorn is sold both sweet and salted, and I was quite delighted to have a mainstream movie theater vindicate my sugared-popcorn addiction. After only a tiny bit of cajoling, I was able to get the Champs-Elysees concession-stand worker to mix both salty and sweet popcorn in one container, to create what will now be my signature French popcorn.

Feb 14-15: Let me get this straight - I'm staying with two Jews in a Christian hostel in Amsterdam?

Brittany, Michelle and I ironically fled the City of Love on Valentine's Day weekend for a verifiably less-romantic locale: Amsterdam! The girl who almost missed her flight from Barcelona back to Paris three years ago after attempting to cram in *one* - (OK, two!) - last powdered Spanish croissants at the Barcelona airport managed to maintain this reputation by contributing to missing a non-refundable, nontransferable 8 am flight to Amsterdam. Fortunately, said girl (and Brittany and Michelle) was able to convince the (necessarily non-Parisian) airline ticket agent to book a later flight for free. Just a guess, but the ticket agent might have been moved by the looked of shocked, paralyzed horror on our faces after being informed that our generous' self-allotment of 30 minutes to both check luggage and go through security was not standard airline protocol (they close the gate 30 minutes ahead of time). We will never again take advice from notoriously-tardy Parisians, specifically Michelle's roommate, Ben, who advised us gullibles that "30 minutes is really all one needs for a European flight." 

Thus, we arrived in Amsterdam slightly later than anticipated, yet just in time to check into our "home" for the next two days: the "Shelter City Hostel," a Christian hostel (paradoxically? . . . conveniently?) located in the heart of Amsterdam's notorious Red-Light District. This sounds hilarious; let me explain. We had coordinated our trip with Brittany's college friend, Kim, who, being very Christian, had already booked the hostel. La seule problème: Michelle and Brittany are both Jewish. This (ironic) realization had prompted this earlier, side-splitting comment two days before: "Let me get this straight: I'm going to stay in a Christian hostel with two Jews in Amsterdam?" Yes, yes, of course. And it didn't turn out to be a problème, after all: Britt and Michelle could not complain about the free "extras:" a pamphlet on the New Testament at check-in; a Christian video montage at breakfast. 

Upon arrival, we went to an open-air market, bought some Dutch gouda, and walked around fulfilling our culinary fantasies: okay, MY culinary fantasy. Don't think "haute cuisine:" fries dipped in just about any other condiment besides ketchup (think mayonnaise) is my Nirvana. Apparently it is standard practice for Dutch frites to come with an assortment of one, two, or even three other complementary condiments: I became extremely excited and ordered frites with mayonnaise and peanut sauce. It sounds disgusting: it was FABULOUS. I understand that waxing poetic about a American staple makes one sound very philistine-ish, but I love other countries' ability to take something Americans think they "know" and make it exciting and new just by virtue of its presentation. Okay, and I just really, really love a restaurant that can vindicate my "mayonnaise-and-fries" addiction.

We finally settled into a pub touting itself "the Smallest Pub in Town" for a 6 p.m. aperatif. We would stay there until almost 2 a.m., hanging out with the witty and warm bartender, Sara, who kept the 60s, 70s, and 80s hits playing; the sweetest Danish boy, Stephen, who told us we were "the nicest and most beautiful people he had ever met" - remind me again why I'm studying in France and not Denmark?; the Liverpool-native but Amsterdam-residing local drunk, Darren, who, in his intoxicated state, gave us all roses for Valentine's Day; several pilots en route to exotic locales; an old dancing Dutch man who habitually attempted to set up Michelle, Brittany and me with the sweet Danish boy; and many, many more! We managed to return back just in time for the Christian hostel's 2 a.m. curfew. =)

The next morning, we were treated to the aforementioned French toast and Christian video montage. We spent the afternoon sightseeing: first, the Van Gogh museum, which was exhibiting the original Starry Night painting; next, the house where Anne Frank hid and wrote her diary. I was extremely excited as I've wanted to visit the "secret annex" since I read her diary as a child. It was very moving, as it had been transformed into a memorial for Holocaust victims. Finally, excited by Amsterdam's surprisingly diverse selection of ethnic cuisine, we dined at an Argentinian restaurant. Luckily we made our flight home - by 5 minutes!

Tuesday, February 10

I went to sample some classes today, and, as it turns out, they were cancelled because the teachers are on strike!! Vive la France.

Sunday, February 8-Monday, February 9

On Sunday I moved to my third (and, hopefully, final) home, still in the Marais. I live with an extremely nice French girl who works for Chloe (yes, Chloe!!!). She loves fashion, Sex & the City, and introduced me to Nutella sushi at a place next door (we are going to be fast friends ;). The neighborhood is near the Place des Vosges and trendy shops and boutiques, but still has a neighborhood-y, park-like atmosphere to it, with lots of trees, and a fresh fruit-and-vegetable market on weekends!

On Monday, I met up with a girl who is in a dual-degree program with American University and Universite Paris-X. She studied for two years at American, and two years at Paris-X, and this May will receive her degree in both French AND American law. Despite the fact that there are no other exchange students in my study abroad program this semester, I still take classes with these dual-degree students, and she was able to give me some much-needed solace and encouragement (Yes, it is possible! No, you probably (eek! see below) won't fail your exams!) about the French university system and the program in general. It turns out that of ALL the places she could live in Paris, she lives just around the corner from me! We met up at my new favorite cafe, called Cafe Creme, where she often studies for classes and which (thankfully) has a wifi internet connection. 

Some facts about French law school as compared to American law school:

- Most of my classes are populated with 22-23-year-olds, as law is an undergraduate AND a master's degree here;

-At the beginning of the semester, I have the opportunity to decide whether I want to take my exams orally or written ("travaux diriges"). The written option is a three-hour-long exam, and requires written, mandatory assignments throughout the semester. The oral option is only 15 minutes long, and entails having a discussion with the professor about the topic. Every administrator I talked to suggested I take the oral option, so the professor can have the requisite amount of pity for me as an international student with a language barrier;

-Professors here are not as generous doling out A-and B-equivalents as in the US, and at least 30-40% of French students FAIL their exams! When that happens, students are required to return in September for their "rattrapage" (roughly: re-take) and the new grade completely cancels the old!

-The magic of "la moyenne:" French grading is on a scale of 1-20; 10 = passing. If a student gets two 8s and two 12s for four classes, he or she has NOT failed two classes! Because the "average" of all FOUR classes is a 10, the student gets credit for ALL four classes, despite the fact that he/she technically failed two exams. This encourages some students to solely focus on one, stronger class, in an effort to "bootstrap" the other 2 or 3 classes into passing grades.

-There are NO required readings NOR required textbooks! Students study mostly from notes (which it is why it is so important for me, as an international student, to befriend diligent students and ask them for note supplements where I haven't comprehended something), and most "suggested" reading can be obtained from the library!

-When I asked when professor office hours are, she just laughed. Professors don't do that here! There's usually a long line of students trailing the professor at the end of lecture in an attempt to cram in every question. Professors do NOT make themselves available to students outside of class in France.

(Above, counter-clockwise from top left): My street; my new neighborhood; Cafe Creme (my new go-to cafe); and Stephanie, my savior and mentor - at our rendez-vous, she also introduced me to the BEST chocolat fondant, featured in the photo, and crepe stand in our neighborhood !!)

Saturday, February 7

On Saturday, Michelle, Brittany and I met up at Galeries Lafayette, my favorite "grand magasin" (department store) in Paris, where I purchased my beautiful new Manoush coat for 60% off due to the twice-yearly "soldes," or sales. I couldn't wait to take them up to one of my favorite spots in Paris, the cafe at the top of Galeries, with a beautiful view over the Paris Opera Garnier and the Eiffel Tower, in the distance. (Above, left).

We couldn't resist the new "trend:" parachute pants (above, right).

So now everyone knows that my ulterior motive for taking the girls to Galeries Lafayette instead of the other department stores was for the gelato. One word: FABulous! (Above, center).

And finally, me in front of Galeries' window display that day: a man playing jazz just inside the window. (Above, top).

Friday, February 6

Hilarious story: on Friday, I met up with an Italian girl, Erika, and a French girl, Magali, at a cafe on the Champs-Elysees. They were looking for someone to rent their third bedroom, which was being vacated by an English girl who was taking a new job in London. I had visited the apartment that week, and although it was a bit further from the center of Paris, it was beautiful and in a safe location, right near the metro. I thought that living with two foreign girls my age would possibly expand my circle of friends and lend even more international flavor to my exchange.

By the time I arrived at the cafe, it was bustling, loud, and crowded, and Magali and Erika had already been seated. Since neither party knew what the other looked like, we were frantically texting each other our respective locations in an attempt to reunite - without success. Finally, I frustratedly wrote: "Blonde hair. Purple scarf. Near the bar in the center," hoping they would spot me and usher me to their table. Several minutes passed, with no response. Finally, I walked over to the other side of the cafe and spotted two girls trying to muffle hysterical, escaping laughter. "Magali? Erika? It's Suzanne. What happened?" I questioned, hoping I was right this time (to avoid scaring the wrong people away.) "OH MY GOD," they laughed, and I waited as they attempted to compose themselves. "We thought you were *her,*" they said, pointing. Immediately to their right was an obese drag queen, ostentatiously made-up with false eyelashes, platforms, and fishnets. And what was she wearing, but a platinum-blonde wig and a purple feather boa. "We were never going to use Craiglist to find a roommate again!" They had been plotting ways to gracefully escape.

Tuesday, February 3 - Thursday, February 5

(above: photos from the Marais)

I arrived at the Italian couple's abode in the Marais at 10 pm., after cramming my belongings into a cab for my second move in one day. It wouldn't be my last: shortly after arriving there, the Italian woman informed me that she would be leaving for India for 2 months, and would not return until April. (!!!) Needless to say, that evening I started looking for my third, and, I hoped, permanent, place to live. 

The next morning, I went to the International Relations office at l'Universite Paris-X Nanterre, hoping for some guidance. From the beginning, I'd known this semester abroad would be unlike my summer studying French in Grenoble, France after junior year of college.  Far from the hand-holding and organized field trips the Universities of Michigan and Stendhal had organized, this time around, I was completely on my own. L'Universite Paris-X had sent me a lone "Guide de l'Etudiant International" (International Student Guide) and a sheet of paper detailing when I could report to the International Relations office - and that was it. No orientation, no hand-holding, and definitely no organized field trips. As far as I knew, there weren't even any other students in my exchange program, which I'd found through American University's School of Law. American operates a "bilateral exchange" program with l'Universite Paris-X in which students from that law school (or visiting students from other law schools) can enroll directly in the Universite Paris-X, taking law courses *in French,* alongside other French and international students. This is what had appealed to me: I finally had the opportunity to combine law school with my French background, and return to my beloved Paris. Yet the uniqueness of the program has also turned out to be its downfall: there aren't many other students who have the requisite level of French AND who want to use it to fill a semester-long law school study-abroad program. 

When I arrived at the International Relations office, I was informed that they had lost my "dossier" ("file"), and that I would have to return the next day. Meanwhile, the office supplied  the name of l'Universite Paris-X's Law School's international exchange coordinator, who would (I thought) finally explain the program and help me pick my classes. Instead, in typical French fashion, I was told to return on Thursday, and hurried out the door with only a packet of current course offerings.

I returned to the International Relations office on Wednesday, as promised, and was finally able to get my Universite Paris-X student identity card, which I needed to register for classes the next day. But upon arriving at the law school that Thursday, I was told I could only register conditioned upon my fixing the "error" on my student identity card. The international exchange coordinator had been new, and was unfamiliar with my diploma (bilateral exchange students may receive a diploma in European and International Law). I was thus told to trek back to the International Relations Office, on the other side of campus, to correct the error. I arrived back in the International Relations Office only to be told that they could not "correct" the "error" until they had proof that I was in my stated degree program. (I was thinking, "isn't the fact that I'm here proof enough??" Apparently not.) Thus I had to return to the law school empty-handed, and was made to register for courses on a provisional basis (conditioned upon receiving proof of my enrollment in the stated degree program). 

That evening, I met up at Cafe de Flore in St. Germain-des-Pres with two other American girls who had just arrived in Paris. We "met" each other online, having emailed each other with housing leads (after responding to the same Craiglist housing ad). Alas, while we were unable to find housing together, we decided to meet up anyway, as none of us knew anyone in Paris. It turned out that our mutual love of 80s music, Madonna, and crepes was a match made in heaven. We ended up talking for four hours that evening: I can't wait to introduce them to the Paris I know and love.

Brittany just graduated from the University of California-San Diego, and is working at a small Paris film festival, a prelude to the May Cannes film festival. Michelle graduated from law school in 2007 and has been working as a Federal Transportation fellow in Washington, D.C., for the past year. She recently had the opportunity to relocate to Paris for a few months, and unreservedly took the opportunity. 

first day: Monday, February 2

February 2, 2009

Paris greeted me last Monday morning with a fresh coat of snow. I shared a taxicab with a girl from Los Angeles who was meeting her sister and mother for a weeklong Parisian vacation. Imagine her delight as she encountered both Paris, and snow, for the first time. The Champs-Elysees was frosted a luminous shimmering white, as if it had known and readied itself for my re-arrival almost three years later. I was ready, or so I thought: in a place where cultivating one's image has been transformed into almost an art form, I had the "de rigueur" flat, leather boots (chic but good for navigating Paris' cobblestones) and multitude of patterned scarves with which Parisian women accessorize their monochromatic outfits. I had learned from almost 7 months here that Parisian women wear out one or two beautiful, high-quality basics - leather boots, well-tailored coat, expensive bag - instead of splurging on a plethora of lower-quality items.

I had initially asked to be dropped off at a studio in the 16th arrondissement - a residential, bourgeois neighborhood in the west of Paris (think Upper East Side or Grosse Pointe - families and old ladies with pooches and brooches). The studio was a former "chambre de bonne" - maid's quarters with a separate entrance - common to the stately Haussmanian mansions that populate the 16th and 8th arrondissements. I had arranged a rendez-vous with the American owner for 9 am that morning, but the snow made it impossible to arrive on time, and the Spanish "guardienne" of the building ("guardian" or "superintendent") gave me my keys instead. The studio had a beautiful view of the Paris rooftops and Eiffel Tower, but somehow felt as if it had been abandoned for quite some time. I couldn't exactly say why I didn't feel at home there - perhaps it was that I felt a bit empty arriving in an apartment where no one was expecting me. I learned something about myself that day: I had initially thought living alone in a studio would be exciting and exhilarating, but it turned out that in a city where I no longer knew anyone, I needed *someone* - even a stranger - to await my arrival. Thus, I called an Italian couple with whom I had been exchanging emails prior to my arrival to ask if they still had an extra bedroom, and after tediously re-packing my belongings, had the Spanish guardienne hail me a cab to the Italian couple's duplex in "Le Marais," an artsy and eclectic neighborhood crammed with fashionistas, creative types, and vintage boutiques. . . . 

(View outside 16th arrondissement studio, at the top)