Hot Child in the City

Brace yourselves because today is a long one.

This is the story of why it is important to always listen to your host family and not get carried away with being grown up and independent in a strange city.

Last night, friends from my program decided to meet at the Bastille metro stop at 11pm. In Normal American Student (NAS) time, this is not late at all. I told my host family that I was possibly planning on going out if my friend Leah, who lives nearby, was planning on going as well, so that we could make plans to return to Arcueil together. The problem is that the metro closes at 1am on the weekends and we were surely going to stay out later than that. So, we could stay for about 30 minutes in Paris, take the “night bus”, or pay for a taxi.

We decided to go for it because we can’t live like wallflowers just because we live in the boonies. We’re going to be here for a long time and we’ve got to figure something out. So, I got ready to go out and left the house at 10:30, when I ran into Francois and Francoise coming home from the cinema down the hill. They both said it was rather late to go out but they would leave their cell phones on if there was anything that I needed – and then they walked me to Leah’s house just in case I couldn’t remember where it was (I actually did). They were very persistent that I should call them if we needed anything.

Leah lives in a very large, very beautiful three story house with a cool divorced woman in her forties who made her fortune in surgery and alimony, and her 18 year old daughter. Her host mom, Elizabeth, also warned us of going out late but, being the independent women we are, we decided to head out. Camille, my host sister, had gone out at about 9, which is apparently the normal hour that French students go out (now I know).

So, we managed to get there successfully on the RER (after I bought the wrong ticket and had a Meg Ryan in French Kiss-like battle with the train attendant) and met our friends at the metro stop. The World Cup of Rugby is this weekend so the Bastille was exploding with frat boys of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities.

I feel that a lot of this experience of surviving in Paris has been based on trial and error. As we learned from our friend Simran last night, wearing a miniskirt in the Bastille is an error. Not only did boys eye her down all evening, she was cat-called and one daring gift to society grabbed her butt as he walked by.

Anyway, we were bored with the stuffy bar we went to, so we left and headed toward the Notre Dame Cathedral. After being approached by an over-persistent American boy (who should know better), we decided to call it a night. Leah and I found a cab that luckily was ‘generous’ and took us out to Arcueil. Apparently, taxis in Paris very rarely go to the suburbs. This particular cab driver was very pleasant, but didn’t know exactly how to get there. For those of you who are aware of my complete and utter lack of any sense of direction, it was a God-given miracle that I had paid enough attention yesterday afternoon and successfully led him to our town.

He dropped off Leah, and that’s where my new-found directional skills failed me completely. I could not find my street and the fare kept ticking away. There is only one entrance to my street, and the other is stairs you must walk up. I recognized some stairs and decided to pay the cab and walk. By this time, it was 2am and Arcueil is a dead town. There is nobody out. It would have made the most sense to walk from Leah’s house if I was lost (because I know the way), but the only thing between my house and hers is the HLM, or in other terms, the projects (which is strange because we both live in nice houses). It was not a far walk back, even though those weren’t actually the right stairs, and I honestly didn’t see anybody except people driving by, but I was shaking when I got to the gate of my house, and had Francois’s cell number on my phone ready to dial the whole walk home.

In the end, Leah and I both made it very clear to our friends that we were not ever meeting them that late again unless we were spending the night in the city and we are all just going to have to figure out how French students with social lives manage.

The next morning, Quentin, my host brother, woke me up and asked if I was going to have breakfast with the family in the garden. So, I got dressed and joined them at the table. There was a huge spread of bread and butter, pain au chocolat, coffee, tea, jam, apples, milk, orange, and carrot juice. Camille and Quentin had bowls (yes bowls) of chocolate milk in from of them and when I sat down, the table wobbled and the milk spilled all over both their laps. They jumped up, covered in chocolate milk and ran out of the garden. Francois and Francoise both wiped down the table and everybody kept saying “Ce n’est pas grave”. (It’s not a big deal.) Finally, when the calamity I created settled down, I realized I had no idea how to properly drink the tea in my cereal bowl, and had to wait on Camille to drink hers so I could make sure I didn’t do it wrong. I guess they don’t use big mugs like us? I didn’t ask. I did make sure that my host parents knew the story of my night and that I had learned a lesson. They both assured me that I could call at any time of night and that, for one year, they considered me one of their children.

I had decided to spend the day in Paris and take advantage of the last Journée du Patrimoine. Francois found the website with all the open monuments and buildings for me to choose from, and then he printed them out and marked on a map all the locations, buses, and trains to get there. Francoise proceeded to call Leah’s host mother to see if Leah wanted to come with me (no answer), and then walked me to the train. They also called to make sure I was okay about two hours later.

Anyway, I started at the Pantheon in the Latin Quarter (where Jeffrey lives – no, Mom, I haven’t had a chance to call yet). I turned a corner, looking for the building, and found a gigantic classical temple.

Let me stop for a second and say that one of the greatest parts about today was that there were many times when I would be searching for a monument (usually lost) or wandering or eating lunch, completely oblivious of the landscape behind me, and I would turn around and see the Eiffel Tower – a completely wonderful surprise out of nowhere.

The Pantheon had a very large interior featuring the usual marble statues, revolutionary leaders - and Foucault’s pendulum. I’ve read about the Pantheon, but when the signs read “Crypt this way”, I discovered that my memory had failed me, and I found the tombs of almost every important Revolutionary author, thinker, and military hero. Voltaire, Rousseau, Marat, Hugo, Emile Zola, and Alexandre Dumas (my favorite French author), among others. Most of the tombs were really monuments to the “grands hommes”, kind of stale. However, one military tomb that I didn’t recognize was lavishly decorated with banners and flowers, like a little crypt party. I still don’t know who he is.

So, onto the Senate. Located in the Luxembourg Palace, this building is usually closed to the public. The most interesting room was by far the General Assembly room, where I was careful to look at the name plates at the Senator’s seats and take a picture of the Socialist Party section. That’s not forgetting the large movie theatre adjacent to Marie de Medici’s old bedroom, where I believe the Senators secretly get together and watch Fight Club.

For lunch, a jambon and fromage sandwich (YEAH, LUCY!) and a Pepsi Light.

From there, I went in search of the Conciergie on Bus No. 38, but I caught it going the wrong way and had to ride it to the end of the line and take the metro back 7 stops, when I had been one stop away when I got on the stupid bus. But in turn, I learned all about the tram, because apparently it only runs at the end of the bus line. I am quite sure I won’t ever use it.

The Conciergie, a building I have wanted to go to for years, was a prison for 5 and a half centuries, and it’s where 2700 people waited to be executed by the guillotine during the Revolution, including Marie Antoinette. It is normally about 8 euros but today was free. So, in line I read the map and the brochure of the building and got so freakin’ excited I almost cried, then I got inside and only the stupid foyer and the gift shop were open. They had completely closed the Prisoner’s Quarters and all the good stuff for the holiday. If I go later and pay, I can see the rest, so I guess I’m going to have to cough it up later.

Then, in search of the Palais Royal, I got lost on foot for an hour. I managed to find the Centre Pompidou, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the Cathedral St. Eustache (or St. Moustache, as I have now deemed it). That reminds me, there is a Build-a-Bear Workshop at the mall in Artueil.

The Palais Royal, which had an incredibly long line, was once the home of Marie de Medici and her son, Louis XIV, then Louis’ brother, the Duc d’Orleans, and finally Jerome Bonaparte (Napoleon’s brother) and his son. Now, it serves as political offices and committee rooms. It is also usually closed to the public, which was awesome because the politicians who work there (like the Vice President, who’s office we saw) left all their papers and stuff on their desks when they left for the weekend. I can’t believe people work in that building – in gilded hallways. The coolest parts – taking a picture of Jacques Chirac’s committee chair and (the best part) meeting the President of the Constitutional Committee, who was signing autographs and kissing babies in his golden-trimmed office.

Another random note, California seems to be of some sort of special interest to the French. My host family often asks me questions about Los Angelos (and Miami) and there was woman in line at the Palais Royal who was reading a book about the customs and cultures of Californians – apparently they are a people of great faith.

My last little note of my adventure today – while lost, looking for the RER at St. Michel (beside the Seine), a gross, overly touchy guy started hitting on me at a stop light, asking me if I wanted to have dinner with him and if I had a boyfriend. I told him to go away immediately and that I was not interested, and moved to the other side of the crowd. Naturally, like any creepy old guy, he followed me and I had to cross the street and use the other cross walk. It turns out that Madame Suraqui was completely correct about Mediterranean men.

Finally, very weary, I returned to Arcueil without a problem and sat down to dinner with my family. I know I said the French are very good about their diets, which is true, but I am not used to these big spreads. Tonight, we had cucumbers, carrots, bread, couscous, mussels, French fries, steak and strange, cold sour apple compote. I only took small helpings of everything and I am so full. I thought we were done after the mussels and started on the compote, when the whole family (no joke) yelled out to stop! – it was for the end of the meal. So I said, we’re not done? And sure enough, out comes the rarest steak I have ever had. It was practically raw. And more French fries, which I refused. Then the weird compote. Phew.

Finally, a really important story I forgot yesterday, my host family’s car doesn’t work very well, and sometimes it will stop randomly at stop signs (like Grandma’s used to) or in the middle of Paris traffic – which isn’t good. The roads here may as well be in Italy. Drivers are insane and I have NO idea how the rules are supposed to work. So, like clockwork and without hesitation, the entire family gets out and pushes the car until it starts again, and jumps in while it’s moving, just like in Little Miss Sunshine. It’s happened three times so far and I never know exactly what’s going on.

Okay, that’s it for this long, long post. Tomorrow I start orientation classes with a language exam and some other random class. I will write again soon. Love you all.