From the Quai Louis Bleriot.
Notice the small Lady Liberty in front of the Eiffel Tower.
These office buildings were created before the hight restrictions.

This morning after my run, a graduate from Stanford (one of Elisabet Maunoury's former students who returned to Paris a few days ago after completing her thesis in India) made the most incredible chai tea. She used spices and Darjeeling leaves from India and whole milk so fresh, it goes bad overnight.
Le jardin du Luxembourg grows tiresome after the third loop. So 2-3 times a week, I take my reluctant feet through Paris' unsystematic streets. 
Lesson: Avoid freestanding liquid at all costs. I learned this when I jogged towards a guy standing against a wall with his back to the sidewalk and his hands… Once I noticed the small stream flowing from between his feet. I promptly averted my eyes and jumped the rivulet.
Because CEA resides in the 3rd and I live in the 5th, most of my time is spent in the 3^rd-5^th. Avoiding the metro during the day and jogging the sights in the morning increases my familiarity with the city and permits guiltless consumption of delicious French food. 

Félix Haloux

During one of my explorative jaunts this week, I discovered on Ile Saint Louis the lyrical accessories of Gallerie Félix Haloux and Marie-Tournelle, an overpriced but curious shop selling wide varieties of Parisian themed paper goods. Ile Saint Louis is also the place for the infamous Bertillion ice cream. I passed four shops selling Bertillion. However, thus far, my warm day ice cream cravings have been satisfied by Amorino. There, regardless of the number of flavors, they serve their luxurious ice creams as blossoming flowers. In the sun, my favorite flavor, l'Inimitable, hardly melts.

On my way home I passed nine wonderful things. Seven of them were crêperies, one a stall of silk scarves and the last a store selling Tintin treasures. 

I passed the first two crêperies with ease but towards #3 and #4 I began slowing down to look the place over as I passed. #4-#6 I stopped for a few seconds just to look at the price of the Nutella crêpe (most expensive: €3,80 least expensive: €2,30). At #7, Crêpe A GoGo, I crossed the street to read the entire menu of crêpes and galettes. 

Lesson

Crêpe • krep • a thin pancake made of flour, water, milk, eggs and SUGAR (for the sweet)

Galette • guh·let • a thin cake made with buckwheat, water, eggs and SALT (for the savory)

As I wove my way through the stares of sidewalk cafes, the somber students, the sleeping bums, and grinning professionals, I made a fantastic discovery: the Tintin store! Before I knew my letters, I avidly read the pictures of Hergé's comic books when Dad was unavailable to read aloud the word bubbles. The detailed images and clever conversations create historically faithful adventures. Before the States landed on the moon, Hergé created Destination Moon in 1953, a surprisingly accurate portrayal of a moon landing that would occur years later in 1969.

work of Arnaud Prinstet (and there are more of these)

The discovery of an exhibit of Parisian and Texan artists led to my compulsory attendance of the opening at Dorothy's Gallery le vendredi 23 septembre, public de 19h à 22h. Is there something here that I dont understand? I thought to myself as passed a dozen bold paintings of the same indigenous face and circled around the exhibit for a third time. Maybe the outstanding photo exhibit the day before left me incapable of admiring anything less, but I was unimpressed with Parisian artists and a little embarrassed of the Texan artists selected by Dorothy and her associates for Paris-Texas, Culture Shock. The sculptor struck me as unoriginal and the painters as sub-par. A lot of work goes into producing Kimberly Gremillion's photos but I was not awed by her Threshold series. However, disliking a work does negate its "ARTness" if indeed it is a work of art. What IS art? During an art criticism class last year, we discussed the uncritical eye of contemporary art critics. If someone points to an object and shouts "art!" we are entitled to label it as such. As a result, the critic has evolved into an observer with a microphone whose main message is "this is art and it is interesting."

From Paris, Texas to Paris, France. Ealy Mays

Dorothy

Patrick Medrano

Scott Kling

The children were better than ever today. Probably because the evening before, when I left their apartment soaked with bathwater, their papa told them that if they misbehaved like that again, I would not return (a threat implying their affection for me). Before—and after because it was incredible—I went to Maison Europeenne de la Photographie Ville de Paris to see L'ombre de la guerre which ends on the 25th. I also saw an exhibit of Jane Evelyn Atwood's work from 1976-2010 and Génération de l'air.Utterly captivating. The celebrated exhibition of war photography spanned the Spanish Civil War to 2007 and included the photographs of Robert Capa, Micha Bar-Am, Tom Stoddart, and Gerda, characters discussed in the book I found on a shelf in my room Get the Picture by John G. Morris.

Choses vues à Tokyo. Grégoire Korganow.

Like biking after months of only running, the exhibit awakened and strained untried mental muscles until I left sore but refreshed and alive. More exhausting still were Atwood's photos of the blind, prostitutes, and women in prison.

I think my 4 least favorite days have been Mondays. No matter how good my weekend is, Monday always brings the "joy in Paris" chart to a weekly low. As I trudged to school this morning, I recalled the conversation with a new friend at church the night before in which I declared myself finished with the worst of culture shock. C'est pas vrai. Walking along the cold, grey streets, I was overcome with regrets and empty wishes. Even the smallest dissatisfaction stung hollow and hopeless. My depression increased when my marketing professor told us about the once a year opportunities we could have done that weekend. For example, I missed a techno parade and a tour of the president's home. The fact that I was one of a few in my class to attend la Fête de l'Humanité and paid 5€ instead of the 20€ did not raise my spirits. It was interesting though to hear the communist leaders shout angrily against U.S.'s presence in Palestinian affairs while hundreds of people cheered their approval.

Facebook, blogs, pictures, all these things make it easy for us to portray the good, to let people view only the parts of our lives that are envious. I share this post with you to demonstrate how my life is not all beer and skittles. Weakness, loneliness, fear, uncertainty, remorse. Sometimes, these things consume my heart and plague my mind.
Thank you my dear school friends for that package of letters I received today. If I wasn't depressed before, I am now. Thank you for reminding me that "being free is being ok to struggle and to lean on God in those times."Now I take a deep breath, eat a French casserole with a French couple and a Brazilian, and fall asleep in clean sheets with hope for the new morning.

Let me hear Your lovingkindness in the morning; 

For I trust You;

Teach me the way in which I should walk;

For to you I lift up my soul.

Psalm 143:8

I love going to the park. After two weeks of taking a four and six year old to the park, I have begun to recognize the other children and their NouNous, Nannys. There is boy, not older than 4 but small for his age, who wears baby-blue glasses and runs around shaking his curly head and clenched fists at the invisible evils of the playground. Another warrior of the same age but asian blood wields a sword when it is not resting in the scabbard hanging from his tummy. My 6 year old often shepherds the twin brunettes up and down the slide, through the sandbox, or onto the seesaw. If you have been an au pair or been watched by one for long, you know who belongs to who. For example, if the little blond begins to wander from the circle of benches that surrounds the play area, an older child will inform the proper nanny, in this case a heavy-set couple with harsh faces and 5-7 charges. Though I am a little jealous, I enjoying watching the children play. My favorite years will forever be my childhood.

My dinner tonight consisted of steamed broccoli and a vegetable from the pumpkin family Madame Maunoury often eats. It was quite delicious. Even better were the three mini apples I steamed and ate with  cannelle, miel, and walnuts. The Maunourys brought home the large bundle of apples two weeks ago after one of their sundays in the country. I do my best to not let them spoil.

Last night, Thais (from Brazil, living in the Maunoury's other spare room, taking classes at the Sorbonne) and I took the metro to rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud for a show at Alimentation Generale. We laughed when we discovered in broken French and English that neither of us knew what kind of music would be performed. We knew was the address and that Eric Maunoury, the second son, would play percussion. When we'd paid our 3€ entry fee and said "bonsoir" to Eric and Gerhard Maunoury (Clovis), I realized my purse had seemed empty because I had forgotten to bring my little blue camera. Extremely disappointing, especially when Jools on Wheels let Eric do a fantastic solo on his base drum, large can, and old suitcase with a small cymbal lying on top.
The venue was the kind of hidden and slightly dirty place that attracts locals who appreciate music and are happy to enjoy it with the people around them, especially after a drink. As the night progressed and the general merriment increased, I realized there is some truth in the rumor that French people can't dance.

Drinking is different here.

People do not take pleasure in intoxication like most of my peers in the States. Perhaps many French are too dependent on alcohol, as Madame Maunoury suggested, drinking it in moderate amounts at lunch, the apéritif, dinner, and late in the evening. Even so, there is a sort of dignity they maintain which is lost when my American associates collect at the power-lines, bars, or houses and imbibe freely, reveling in the numb gaiety. I do not know if the high drinking age helps or hinders alcoholic responsibility in the States. It would be interesting to experiment. If the legal drinking age were 18 like it is in Brazil, or 16 like most of Europe,  would we become more sophisticated in our dealings with alcohol?

Every Wednesday from 9h30 to 12h I attend Urban Social Photography at CEA’s global campus. My professor is originally a New Yorker, spent 13 years in Israel photographing and raising awareness of the social turmoil, and has lived in France since 2001. My high school logic professor, Dr Lee, would be proud of me because every Wednesday from 9h30 to 12h I “sit at the feet of one who knows.”
See her website: http://www.hallypancer.com

Tonight at dinner, Madame Maunoury broached topics such as the chemically saturated state of our food, global pollution, the upcoming presidential election in the States, the withdrawal of compulsory Swedish language from Finnish schools, and the French education system. I hope that this experience among dissimilar minds and habits will expand my intellect and teach me to consider others, to think more globally. Maybe I will begin to care enough to read about what occurs outside the US, to know the world's political leaders, to merely glance at the headlines of other countries' papers rather than satisfy myself with the Dallas funnies on Sunday mornings. How can an ethnocentric mind contribute anything worth receiving to society? We can not all play the idiot. 

Saturday evening I again borded a train for Esbly and again, I was greeted by Emilie Voke but this time I was greeted by a familiar face, a friend.
Eglise Protestante Evangelique d'Ésbly's first youth group meeting was that night. We went to a crêperie on the main street and sat in the backyard amongst an old bike, an unfinished patio, and other miscellaneous and forgotten objects. The 11 of us sat in a variety of chairs around tables that bumped our knees. They spoke in French about past studies and future topics. When I forgot to concentrate on the conversation, I noticed the shapes of the clouds and the sky turning grey, wondering when the lights would be turned on. At one point, I saw an enormous yellow cat with a protruding belly.
The food was absolutely delicious. Best Nutella crêpe.
These sorts of evenings are my favorite.
My French listening skills are slowly improving.
(My camera died on the way there so I dont have any pictures.)

Jardins des Plantes. Walked through here Saturday afternoon.

The sun shone uninhibited and the heat increased with the perspiring crowd. Disregarding the heat, the afternoon was ideal for les vendanges du Château Charonne. Every year, Jacques Melac hosts a festival from his wine bar bistrot Melac on rue Léon Frot.  They use ladders to reach the vines growing above the awning, pluck the grapes, and place them in the barrels for the children who create a thick purple mess with their rinsed feet. Melac also serves food at the festival. Though I would have preferred the cheese plate with my uncharacteristically full glass of wine, I decided to try the saucisse aligot,  a traditional dish from Aveyron Bozouls, where Melac and the grape vines originate. The mashed potatoes were fabulous but I could not finish the sausage which was composed of uncomfortably unambiguous bits of grey and pinkish matter.
The band played French 50s and 60s, pausing only to recognize the entrance of Michou—as though people dont notice when a man wearing an electric blue suit and matching sunglasses rolls into town. At 15h I began my hour long walk home.

Mayor of the 11th district?  Michou, Melac (owner of the establishment and a fine mustache)

Clovis, Thais and I before cutting into the cake.

I heard this story during dinner tonight with my host parents and Thais, a Brazilian girl also living with the Maunourys who studies at the Sorbonne. We dined through our bread and homemade hummus, salad, shrimp and pasta, and were eating cheese and bread with bordeaux as Madame Maunoury shared the following…

More than forty years ago, Grace Kelly heard about musicians who could play on saws (the hand tool for cutting wood) and she decided she wanted very much to hear one. Try as they might, her directors from Monaco could not find her such a musician.

One day, Gerhard Maunoury received a call at his appartement in Paris. Could you play the saw for Grace Kelly? Of course! he replied, though he'd never played the saw before. He was educated in painting. Fortunately, his wife Elizabeth knew the musically well-rounded organist at church who agreed to teach her impulsive husband how to play this strange yet desired instrument. Several days later, Gerhard left for Monaco with a saw and two songs.

“What if they ask you to play another song?” worried his wife.

“I will play the first one again,” he replied easily.

Gerhard was accompanied by 15 gypsies. Gypsies played as musicians in most distinguished restaurants at the time but were rarely presented opportunities to play together in large groups. They were incredibly talented. Two songs from the musician on the saw and 15 gypsies satisfied Grace Kelley and her visitors. The next day, Gerhard returned home although the invitation at Monaco lasted several more days.

“Why did you come home so early? Querried Elizabeth.

“They were boring,” Gerhard replied.

This is Monsieur Gerhard Maunoury, known also as Clovis. The artist, musician, writer, actor, and my home-stay father. If you have time, go to his website but at LEAST watch his trailer: Clovis le musicopathe Trailer

One of the little angels in love with Emilie.

Today was a good day though it began poorly. The muggy Saturday was less enjoyable than I had hoped and its heavy air drifted allegorically into my Sunday morning. They told me I was at the wrong station so I missed my first train. No problem. That’s why I’m early. 30 minutes later I am told to go to the station I was previously at. Missed the second train. Now I’m missing church. 

Sometimes life skips the lemons and gives you the lemonade in a sugar rimmed glass. This morning, I felt as if life forgot me entirely. P.S. Happy Birthday.

Along with missing the train this morning and missing my friends the day before, all of the unknowns, anxieties, frustrations and fears of my current situation gathered into a ball of discouragement and took out my legs like bowling pins. When I finally arrived in Esbly, I walked dejectedly down the street until I saw a boulangerie. Due to a communication error, I walked out with two chocolate croissants for 2,40€ and determined to have a pleasant walk through the countryside unless I happened to find the church. Before I walked far from the shop, I noticed a girl striding confidently towards me. She was Emilie Voke, sent to deliver me to the church which was only 100 meters away. 

I sang “Il n’y a plus de Condemnation” and “Mon Jésus, mon Sauveur” with the 50 others then munched slowly on my pain au chocolat, straining in vain to discern the message and testimonies during the three baptisms. Even so, I felt comfortable.

 For three hours, I dined with the Vokes at a young couple’s house on crêpes. They sang Joyeux Anniversaire and opened a delicious bottle of white wine from Die. At dinner I absorbed words until my mind was drenched in French and my belly brimmed with crêpes. By 22:00 I boarded the train for Paris.

Every hour is different and I never know what the next one will hold.

Kyla, me, Natalie at a FABULOUS crêperie

At 7:30 I headed to platform 25. Just before the train pulled away, the CEA staff revealed our destination: Deauville and Trouville for the American Film Festival. Today in Deauville, the films and TV shows Take Shelter, The Help, The Killing, Justified, and Bewitched premiered. Rather than buying a ticket for the films, I spent the morning and early afternoon in the fishing village Trouville with Kyla and Natalie. Most of the afternoon I walked through Deauville past shops I couldn’t afford dirt from. I took photos of several people who were being interviewed or followed by cameras. As I raised my camera over the hedge, different French people asked me who I was taking pictures of, because they also figured he was important, 

Probably a famous guy.

“je ne sais pas,” I replied with a laugh.

I have decided to invest in a fashionable pair of supportive shoes. Walking all day is too much for my blue suede Steve Madden flats. Moreover, when the wet, dreary winter sets in, I will need something hardier.  
After my job interview this morning, I dawdled through the Jewish and gay district of le Marais. Keeping an eye out for a good pair of boots and a jacket, I wandered in and out of several shops, including two resale stores which were disappointingly cluttered with old things. Though at times I was up to my elbows rummaging through skirts and scarves, I turned towards my first museum empty handed and drained. I miss Dallas consignment. 

Peter Saul Bewtiful and Stwong

Spirits rose a little as I ventured on the grand escalator, shiny student ticket in hand, towards the contemporary wing of Centre Pompidou. The architects Piano and Rogers designed the strangest building of blocks and tubes that I have ever seen. Parisians enjoy sitting in its sloping square surrounded by large white piping. I could not spend more than two hours in the musée. My feet ached, the musty, unkept stores exhausted my spirit and the works of Peter Saul and André Cadere fried my brain. When I return to Centre Pompidou, I will bring an audio guide with me.