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 !!)