Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Parisians Love to Party, Part 2: Marche des Fiertes LGBT


Facebook for me can be both a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand, it gives me the illusion that I am being good about staying in touch with most of the important people in my life.  On the downside, it makes me insanely jealous that I'm no longer around for things like, oh, say, COMFEST in all of its hippie drum circle glory (and delicious, delicious Rad Dogs).  So when I got to reading about everyone back in C-bus getting all pumped for Pride weekend, I have to admit it bummed me out.  And then I remembered: Hey, Paris probably has gay people too!

So just as AH was beginning to recover from Fete de la Music, I succeeded in dragging him out on Saturday afternoon to the Marche des Fiertes LGBT (I at least spared him the indignity of carrying my parasol).  We settled ourselves in a prime spot near the Port Royal metro stop, and wondered aloud why there weren't more spectators.  Our answer came once the parade started: everyone seemed to be marching rather than watching. AH and I were standing on a cement divider in the middle of the street and there were times when it felt like we would be pulled out into the sea of young, drunken and scantily clad revelers (more than one sighting of a teenage girl in nothing but short shorts and a bra caused me to grumble to myself, "Pride: celebrating the love and dignity of LGBT people, and celebrating the ability of that 18 year-old's nipples to magically stay in that top").

As would be expected, Pride in Paris did not disappoint.  Here are some of the most memorable moments:

Most Festive Spectators:
These two were dancing up a storm and taking pictures with everyone that passed within ten feet of them.  Although, they might have to share that title with these gals:
I do so love thematic coordinated group costumes!

Best Headdress:

Most "And...what does that have to do with Gay Pride, exactly?":
Did I miss something?  Is Hugh Hefner, Inc., suddenly supportive of any sort of LGBT activity that doesn't involve 22 year old blondes making out in the Playboy Pools for the amusement of old, rich men?

Best Cautionary Tale:
This one goes to the girl who decided to consume copious amounts of alcohol while walking a far distance at the end of June in a sweltering urban environment.  As a result of this decision, she passed out, hit her head on the concrete, and then proceeded to puke all over herself, her friends and the police officers that came to help.  She was carted away in an ambulance.  

Party I Most Want to Be Attending Later:
A sexy cop, Alice, and what appears to be one of the Three Musketeers.

Best "HAHAHA....oh, *sigh*. WAHWAH":
The girl in the French Maid outfit that wrote "Property of DSK" on the apron.

Man Most Likely to Be My Soul Mate:
Um, hello?  We have the same parasol; it was totally meant to be.

Cutest Pride Mascot:

And last but not least...

Most Accurate Assumption Made About Me in the Shortest Amount of Time:
To the girl who handed me this flier (it says "girls who like boys who like boys").  What gave me away?

Monday, June 27, 2011

Parisians Love to Party, Part 1: Fete de la Music

Now that summer is here (and the sunny, beautiful weather we had in April is finally starting to return), it seems like there's a party or festival happening every day.  And it's awesome.

Exampe #1:  Fete de la Music, which took place Tuesday night.  Luckily I was hanging out with my friend Erin on Monday or I totally would have missed it.

Erin:  So, what are you doing for tomorrow night?
Me:  Well, it's a Tuesday, so probably avoiding the train strike and then going to bible study...?

When asking her why I was supposed to have plans for a random Tuesday night, she explained that Fete de la Music is this magical night that happens every June 21st in Paris where there are bands and musicians playing all over the city late into the night;  go to any bar, church or street corner and you're bound to hear someone playing (whether it's any good is another story).

Being the good children we are, AH and I managed to get to bible study and Fete de la Music; we met Erin in the Latin Quarter around 11:30.  Clearly Erin's done this before:  when I told her we'd meet her by the Font St. Michel, she suggested we might want to be more specific.  And sure enough, it was completely packed with young revelers, some of whom were splashing about drunkenly in the fountain.  Erin was maybe 10 feet away and still had to call us to find out where we were.

Like the U.S., consumption of alcoholic beverages is an integral part of festivities like this.  The difference in France is that there are no open container laws, so people are free to roam about willy nilly with bottles of wine (or, in one young man's case, a camel pack full of beer- I'm sure that ended well).  The drink of the evening was something called Desperado, which is basically Corona with tequila mixed in.  And in the spirit of "When in Rome,"  AH and I each purchased one to walk about with (and believe me, one was sufficient).

We heard everything from a lovely jazz quartet to a rock band of questionable talent (always a bad thing when you're upstaged by your fog machine), a lone drummer banging away on his set to a DJ playing dance music that got the whole street moving.  And the whole quarter was so packed that Erin and I were able to sneak into a bar to use the bathroom ("Desperado" indeed) without the servers tracking us down and forcing us to buy a glass of wine first.

We eventually decided to hike over the Ile to the Marais to meet up with another friend of ours who was enjoying rocking out to Donna Summers (Marais=Short North).  Unfortunately by the time we got there, "They turned off the bubble machines and all the gays dispersed" (the picture above is of the aftermath).  So we wandered about for a while until it was suggested that we find a club and go dancing.  Being that it was already 2 and AH had to work the next day, and we were in a bar that had this sign posted on the wall,

I had a feeling that it might be time to call it a night.  

Now the wonderful thing about public transit is of course that A) everyone can share the joy of Corona mixed with tequila because no one will get stuck driving and B) you don't ever have to wonder where the heck you parked your car.  The downside, at least in Paris, is that the trains stop running at a certain hour and you are forced to take the night bus.  However, due to the Fete, AH and I discovered that not only were the trains running, but the RER B (which had been not running due to a strike on Tuesday), our most direct way home, was now running because, well, it was Wednesday morning now.  AH's theory was that the train conductors knew they'd be stuck working late transporting loud, drunk people around the city so they decided to take the day off in anticipation.

Of course, we don't count ourselves in that judgment.  We were sleepy drunk people who just wanted to get home to our bed and for our hearing to return.  On both counts:  success!

Coming Soon:  Parisians Love to Party, Part 2: Pride...

Saturday, June 18, 2011

I'm Going to Hell (or, Satan Made Me Do It)


For months I have been kvetching that Paris, while famously flowing with cheap, delicious wine, is seriously lacking in anything resembling decent beer (5 euros for canned Heineken, are you freakin' kidding me?!).  So when our friends the Aussie and the Indian invited us to a Belgian restaurant/bar known as the "Beer Academy," AH and I were on that like Rush Limbaugh on deep-fried prescription painkillers.  And the beer list did not disappoint; it was longer than the lecture I might be receiving about making a tasteless and dated Rush Limbaugh joke.

After sampling a delicious Amber offering from a Belgian abbey (I do what I can to support men of the clothe), it was decided that someone had to try to the beer known simply as Satan.  Now while foods with diabolical references in the title are usually extremely spicy, drinks with similar names are supposed to knock one on one's behind.  But this was a beer with a relatively normal alcohol percentage; what could be so Satanic about that?

While enjoying my sausage and French fries (while clutching my pearls at rampant obesity rates, natch), I see a girl attempting to navigate her way down the small, winding staircase that leads down to the WC.  Now, this is a fairly common occurrence in Paris: the loos are often located either up or down a narrow, rickety, steep set of stairs.  I've always wondered if this was only because of the general lack of space in Paris or if it also served to weed out the drunks (because once you hit a certain point, you don't stay in a spot without an easily accessible toilet).  In this girl's case, the stairs appeared to be fulfilling their function; she was clinging to that railing like Michael Moore clinging to anecdotal evidence that the government is out to get poor people (see, I like to keep things Fair and Balanced around these parts).  I snicker and point her out to my companions.

About ten minutes of Satan sipping later, AH notices our seemingly drunk ladyfriend ascending the stairs.  This time, her friend is waiting for her at the top of the stairs, holding her leg braces.  She is not drunk; she is differently abled.

That is why beer is Satan: it will keep me good company in the fiery inferno in which I will eventually be confined.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

History Snobs


Yesterday was Pentecost Monday and, because France is known for its wild religious devotion, AH got the day off from work.  Of course, as our luck would have it, most of Paris' fantastic museums are closed on Mondays, so we were left with a choice between going to Saint-Chapelle or the Holocaust museum.  Being that we had a delightful picnic planned with friends from church later that day (at which I may or may not have almost started a gang fight with some drunken French teenagers, but that's a story for another time), we decided it might be best to keep our spirits a bit more buoyant and thus decided to save the Memorial de la Shoah for another day.

AH and I waited in line for Saint-Chapelle behind a good-looking family of four consisting of a mother, a father, and two teenagers.  While accidentally (on-purpose) eavesdropping, this is the conversation we overheard:

Dad: *reading from a plaque on the wall* "Saint-Chapelle was built to house the relics of the Passion of the Christ."
Daughter: What? I didn't get that.
Dad: You can read; turn around, it's right there.
Daughter:  No, I didn't understand what it meant.  What's a relic?
Dad:  *giving stern, dadly look* C'mon, you know what that word means.
Daughter:  No, I really don't.  Please, daddy?  Tell me what it means?
Dad: *long pause* It's, you know, really old stuff.

Meanwhile...
Me: *whispers* Is it wrong that I want to break in and give a brief history lesson?
AH: *whispers back* Nope, moi aussi.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Every Time

        
        So now that I'm slowly getting over my jet-lag and what I thought was a stomach virus but now think was actually mold poisoning (don't ask), I'm ready to sit down and reflect on my glorious, and all too brief, trip back to Motherland (too soon?  Am I allowed to call it that?).  I can tell you that it was a glorious 10 days of bourbon, Dirty Frank's, the union of two of my favorite people, Jeni's ice cream, more bourbon, Northstar burgers, the Short North and some wacky Wheelers, Thorntons, Drapers with some of my best church and college buds thrown in for good measure.  And kittens.  And now, as usual, I do have a few humble observations:

1)  Firstly, a note about the flight over.  Ever wondered what hell is like?  It's a trans-Atlantic flight with "Two and a Half Men" as the in-flight entertainment.  AH remarked, "You know how we keep hearing the statistic that this show has such an unbelievably large viewership, and wondering who would actually watch this?  I wonder if they count people like us who are forced to watch it against their will."  I hope he's right, otherwise my faith in humanity has dropped just a wee bit further.

2)  After only being in France for a few measly months, there are some things about the U.S. that, while normal to me only last December, are now fairly jarring.  (Don't worry, I have no intention of going Euro-snob on you, just some things I happened to notice).  For example: American waiters talk a lot.  Now of course I cannot deny the exhilarating joy of walking into a store in the Charlotte, NC airport, and realizing that tiny knot of dread that wells up in my stomach every time I walk into a shop could dissipate; there was no need to stop and worry about finding the right words to say, or to be concerned that I was going to unknowingly commit a cultural faux-pas.  I could speak Amurican, Dammit, and get my mentos and trashy mags without fear, thankyouverymuch.  So I assumed that my thrill at being able to communicate with strangers would cause me to want to jabber ceaselessly with the wait-staff at Cap City Diner.  Not so.  While our waiter was very pleasant, I mostly found myself wishing he would cut the small talk and just bring me my beer so I could talk to the people I love but hadn't seen for six months.  That being said, realizing that my drink had been refilled (with ice! Glorious ice!) without having to beg for a caraffe of still was quite the pleasant surprise.

Also, dag, did I see a lot of sweatpants.

3) Driving still sucks.  While I'm no fan of sweaty armpits on my head, neither am I fan of this:


3) And now, for one of the strangest and most unexpected things I discovered.  I was at the wedding of two dear friends, surrounded by people I've grown up with, people who knew me when I thought it was cool to wear six necklaces at the same time, who witnessed my 21st birthday, who came to see me in "That Famous Women's Play by Eve Ensler" (as my father instructed me to list it on my resume), people who surrounded me with love at my own wedding.  And still something was wrong.  I should have been totally at ease, but I wasn't.
          On my way to the loo, I was stopped by a woman from my church who asked me how I was enjoying France.  I shot off some quick remark (a rum and coke bladder is not prone to wait for pleasantries), and was turning to leave when she said, "You know, sometimes coming home can make you homesick." And even through my rum and coke haze I thought, boy, did she hit the nail on the head.  So backwards, so not how it's supposed to work, but so true.  I remember when I first arrived in Paris, a girl at ACP told me that she had just gotten back from a Christmas trip home, and now she was so bummed and homesick.  I thought that sounded a little nuts; don't we shell out good money to go home and cure our homesickness?  Wasn't I supposed to return to Columbus to fill up like a car on gasoline on enough Dirty Frank's and Maker's Mark, Short North drag queen sightings, homemade cookies, nights out with my girls and long talks with my family to get me through the months, even years until I can make it back?
         On our last night in town, I ended up sitting across from my father at Schmidt's (which is much better when you can eat the sausage and drink the beer, I must say).  Now for those of you who don't know (so most of you), not long after my parents had my older sister, they did the unthinkable: they left Kentucky for Cleveland.  And for them, Cleveland might as well have been Paris: their families were there, they lived next door and down the street from people who had become (and still are to this day) great friends of theirs, but life (and my dad's boss) was calling them elsewhere.  And so I asked my dad, how'd you do it?  What magical formula is there for getting the most out of your visit home so that you return to your new place feeling better?  And this is what he told me:

"You know, I can tell you the moment I would always get homesick for Kentucky: it was the moment I would be crossing the Big Mac bridge [the bridge we always drive over from Cincinnati into Kentucky to see family].  I would immediately start to think about where I would live if we moved back, where I'd look for a job, what schools you girls would go to.  But the second I crossed that bridge back into Ohio, I would start thinking again about my life in Cleveland, and about how I actually did kind of like it there."

Getting back on the plane to Paris, I took a second to appreciate the irony of how I was probably the only American on the plane with such mixed feelings of being on my way to France.  In my mind, the way that a trip is supposed to go is this: on the way there, you get excited because you are about to go and have a new adventure.  On the plane ride back, you are relieved because you're going home to your own bed, your own shower, your friends and family.  And that's not how it works for me anymore.  I get on the plane, excited, but also longing for the comfort of my old life, and all the wonderful people in it.  And on my way back, I know I'm on my way back to new adventures, but also, to my own bed.  "Safety" and "adventure," "comfort" and "uncertainty" have all gotten mixed up.  And "home" has become a fraught and confusing word.

And so we are back in Paris, and things are already so different from when I got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle six months ago.  Seeing signs in French is no longer exotic, a reminder of the great adventure I'm on; it's a reminder that my knowledge of the French language is still painfully inadequate, and that I'm probably going to get my butt kicked tomorrow by my two tiny little Francophones.  But I also understand so much more of what they mean; the mystery is giving way, ever so slowly, and often painfully to understanding.

If there was a way I could be in two places at once, to have the adventure and possibility of Paris and the comfort of Columbus, I would.  But I can't.  And as my father predicted, now that I'm back here, with my beautiful view of the park and my fabulous crusty bread, I feel much less sorry for myself than I did 48 hours ago.  But there are still those pesky Dana, Barbara, and T-Dog shaped holes in my heart (and many more besides).  And no amount of brie can fill them.