I flatter myself that I live fairly well at Mount Holyoke. With room and board covered, I can devote my extra money to securing all the necessities of college life. Most of my cash goes to buying snacks, doing laundry, and maintaining my supplies of pens and of basic toiletries. Let me emphasize the word basic. My shower tote lives in the bathroom and contains only shampoo, conditioner, soap, floss, toothbrush, and toothpaste. There's a razor too, but the cold Massachusetts winters make furry legs an asset, so it won't see much use until Spring. When I get to my room, my post-shower beauty and hygiene regimen requires only a hearty dollop of lotion--body lotion only. I've never gone in for that special face stuff. If my face thinks it's too high and mighty for the Lubriderm I smear on my bum, it can just think again.

So coming home for Christmas is something of a shock to my value-system (i.e. my devaluing of fancy beauty products). Home feels familiar only until I step into the bathroom I share with my younger sister. Entering there is like walking through the Stargate into an alien universe of bottles and jars and vials of one potion after another, each guaranteed to do something miraculous and make you look like Nicole Kidman. I only vaguely remember a time when my sister mourned her ultra-pale, Kidmanesque skin. I seem to remember an occasion on which she wished she could tan instead of burn, but the memory is faint. For at least the last seven years, she determinedly celebrated her pigmentless translucence by religiously applying sunscreen at every season of the year. Dozens of bottles of sunblock, SPF 300 and up, hide in drawers and on the shelves of the medicine cabinet. There they mingle with neglected bottles of acne cure-alls (though I confess, not all of these are Stacey's--in my time I, too, fell victim to the promise of "clearer skin in three days"). There are name-brand products, which get you to spend more money by insisting that they only work when paired with a supplement of the same brand. Heaven forbid Oil of Olay should moisturize skin cleansed by Neutrogena! Or there are the skin-clearing kits, like the Proactiv system of infomercial fame, peddled by Vanessa Williams and Jessica Simpson. Somehow it's hard to reconcile the luxurious, marbled bathrooms of those stars with the distinctly un-glamorous cardboard box and three plastic bottles I find inside this so called miracle package. Of course, the problem with these kits is that you inevitably run out of one component before the others, and unfortunately there's no way to buy more of just the overnight spot-zapping incredi-gel without buying the complete set. The whole system is incomplete and therefore useless, unless you suck it up and buy a whole nother box. Of course, after a few such cases, you end up with four extra bottles of squeaky-clean face cleanser, mm-mm moisturizer, and submarine-deep algae face mask that clutter up your cabinets while you try to squeeze enough spot-zapper out of five tiny, dried up tubes to cover the zit swelling dead center on your forehead. You end up calling for your sixth order in three months and asking if you get a discount for buying in bulk. That, anyway, is how I explain to myself the litter of half-empty and untouched Proactiv products in the cabinet under the sink.

But skin is only as good as what you cover it with, and my sister has the finest in make-up. Until I arrived home this year, I didn't realise how many different ways of lining one's eyes there actually are. Now I poke nosily through her stash of powders, smudge pots, pencils, and paintbrushes, testing the difference between liquid and solid liners and trying to understand why anyone would take so stiff a brush to sensitive eye skin. I don't even attempt to fathom the mystery that blending and matching shades of eye shadow presents. I just accept the assurance that there is, in fact, a difference between "shimmering opal" and "mother of pearl," despite all sensory evidence to the contrary. I merely note that the abundance of mascara wands could equip a miniature dance corps of chimney sweeps singing "Step-in-Time," dancing around on the jars and bottles that have set up permanent residence around the sink.

Various hair-grooming concoctions live on my counter: one to make hair wavy, another to make it straight. One that smells suspiciously like salt-water and claims to make your hair look "blown by an ocean breeze," and one that advertises itself as a "shine-enhancer" but that I secretly believe is canola oil. There are squeeze bottles sticky with goo that will bring out red highlights or enhance the brilliance of Stacey's natural brunette. Each bottle is from a different era of hairstyle, much like the curlers and straighteners that live in the bottom drawer with the now unused blow drier. There's a curl-enhancing mousse from the permed look she sported for all of three months. But three months is far too long for a single hairstyle, so in the third month of the perm she bought a (now neglected) "smooth and sleek" gel. I can still remember the chemical steam that enveloped our bathroom when the gelled, damp hair was pressed through a straightening iron. There are cute butterfly clips leftover from our middle school years and jumbo clips from the time when Stacey's hair was so long it dangled down to her navel. The most recent products are aimed at her current look: the punk-rocker pixie. A "molding gel" sits in the place of honor by the sink, making me yearn to take a handful of it for myself and "mold" my hair into a swan-shaped helmet that would impress even the boys from A Flock of Seagulls. Bobby pins are sprinkled like confetti over every possible surface of our bathroom. They turn up in every drawer and on every shelf, all over the counter and on the back of the toilet, on the floor, even in the shower.

I find the shower the most puzzling part of our bathroom these days. It is as stocked as the other nooks, but the products there are more surprising. There is shampoo in what appears to be a three liter bottle, and a fist-sized, half-empty pot of very highbrow conditioner. The frustrating thing about having a pot of liquid in the shower is the difficulty it presents in trying to get the conditioner out without letting water into the container. You have to unscrew the top and scoop the cream out in a claw-like movement, then try to screw the top back onto the jar with only one hand while the stuff you're about to use--growing more diluted by the second--seeps through the fingers of your other paw. I haven't yet figured out the best way to manage it. Shampoo and conditioner is generally all I use, but that hasn't kept me from investigating the other cosmetic concoctions. There's a salt scrub in a big jar that's supposed to smell like gingerbread, except it's too salty, so it ends up smelling like vinegar. There are three mini jars of French gommage (another scrub) that make me wonder why my seventeen-year-old sister wants to smell like "Merlot," "Cabernet," and "Sauvignon." There is a combination shampoo/body wash/bubble bath that smells very like the pumpkin its label professes it resembles. But there's something kind of rotten about the after-smell. The lingering note at the end of an inhalation gives one the same sensation that accompanies a swig of orange juice after you've just gargled with Listerine. And the pumpkin gunk is altogether too thick and syrupy to be a shampoo, though I imagine it must do quite well as a body wash. The wire rack that hangs over the shower head holds the requisite facial wash and two of my sister's toothbrushes, since she never manages to brush her teeth at the sink these days. If she's just showered, I know to look for the toothpaste on the side of the tub, and that I'll find a cold, wet washcloth on the tub floor that the OCD side of me can't help wringing out and hanging up. Used to be I would also find long strands of hair plastered to the shower's tile wall and wadded up in drain, but the advantage of the pixie cut is that her hair is too short to get caught in the drain and irritate my compulsive sensibilities.

The most bewitching thing about the shower, however, is not what it contains, but what it lacks. I stood baffled the first time I showered this vacation, incredulous that among all the goodies and marvels tucked into every corner of the room, the one essential was no where to be found. Dripping wet, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to my parents' room, where from under their sink I grabbed a new bar of plain, ivory soap.

A recent adventure: Sorting through the Hoard.

This blog is dedicated to Tracy Zhu, who unwisely desired me to resume writing these nonsensical bits of gibberish. To compensate for having left her so long undernourished, I offer a more than usually hearty helping of Stephanie’s Life, as told by she who lives it, which is to say, Stephanie herself.

As the summer draws to a close, I am packing to head back to Mount Holyoke for one more year of college. After that, who knows? Upon graduation, I may be going directly to a job, preparing to go to grad or law school, or (as my parents dread) coming home to live with them. But faced with the prospect of never living with Mom and Pop ever again, I am doing my best to clean out my room and take everything essential with me. This, of course, requires going through every single thing I own and deciding if it’s worth keeping, donating, junking, or re-gifting.

In the sorting process, I’ve uncovered many a lost treasure I’d completely forgotten. For example, I found my collection of worn out slippers that have been accumulating since I was fifteen. Though they were no longer of use, I could never quite bear to banish them to the trash because I’d formed too strong an emotional bond with each pair of filthy, fuzzy, holey, and, in the case of one pair, moldy fluffballs. I found a particularly impressive button collection, acquired mainly due to a certain friend who long believed that the addition of a button gave any ordinary birthday gift that little something extra.

But my favorite discoveries were made when going through my files. There I found unequivocal proof that a sixteen year old girl has no idea which documents are worth storing for posterity and which deserve the wastebin. I found an excess of AP prompts carefully organized into categories such as “Old Stuff,” “Kinda Feminist,” and “Prompts I don’t like.” Trying to remember why I would have set these aside, I finally recalled my younger self’s imagined vision of college life, in which I incorporated extracts from these prompts in future papers. I still haven’t quite worked out how I planned to cite any quotes used from these in the bibliography. “Author Unknown. Prompt One. AP English Lang: College Board, 2002.” Somehow I doubt many professors would accept such a source…

I was equally unrealistic in deciding which of my financial documents should be kept. Wary of the TaxMan, I somewhat overzealously determined upon receipt of my first paycheck that I would keep every single paycheck summary I ever earned for the rest of eternity. Four years worth of paychecks (and that’s not a few, since I’ve continually worked since I was sixteen and often held multiple jobs at once) bulged out of a large plastic file box, threatening to split the container-store purchase that once promised to “clear up the clutter and set me free!” A multi-million dollar corporation with a professional accounting department could not have kept better track of its documents than I did of my $50.00 paycheck stubs. After all, you never know when an auditor might show up on your doorstep demanding proof of the $27.84 you made in November of 2003.

But enough of the rambling and inadequate justifications of a compulsive packrat; I’m off to shred the last three years of saved credit card applications and bank statements of long-closed accounts.

Clarification: Jean Calvin was Swiss AND French

Okay, so I've had more than one person comment on this, so I thought I would just let you all know that I've done some research on sites more credible than the beloved Wikipedia, so here's the deal on Calvin's nationality:

Jean Chauvin was born July 10, 1509 in Noyon, Picardy, FRANCE. He lived there until he went to study Latin in Paris, then Law in Orleans, then back to Paris for classical literature. While in Paris the second time, he made friends with Nicholas Cop. Now Nicky was, in 1533, appointed Rector of the University and, in his very first sermon, said some lovely things that immediately got him branded a heretic. Jean fled to escape guilt by association, first to Angouleme (French town about 6 hours SW of Paris by bus), and then, when King Francis I decided that he really wanted to crack down on those dern heretics, to Basel, Switzerland. Though he returned to France briefly to set his affairs in order, he emigrated permanently to Switzerland in 1536, and spent most of the rest of his life in Geneva.

Though his father's name was Cauvin, sometimes spelled Chauvin, Jean himself showed a preference for Calvin, even as a young man. That explains why the street was named Jean Calvin: Calvin was his own prefered spelling, even in French, and Jean is the only way the French will ever spell what we call John. Probably the only way Jean spelled it too.

So there you are. Thank you to all of you who rightly corrected me, and forced me to probe deeper into the mysteries of history and naming.

Romantic Frustrations of a Foreigner

I know I promised the details of my new Amour this letter, but before I disclose them, I must say a few more words regarding my difficulties with the French courting system.

So I learned my lesson after two frightening experiences with dragueurs, both recounted in my last post. I spent a few hours practicing an intimidating "Non, Merci!" (No thank you!) and "Laissez-moi tranquille!" (Leave me alone!) as well as a few harsher phrases in my mirror, but I must have mastered the icy mask expression because I have not been approached by any strangers since that last occasion. A Frenchwoman told me and my friend Daniela that when men bother me I must look at them with utter indifference and say in a bored, annoyed (though not angry--that provokes them) voice, "Quoi?" (What?). I'm not sure that her mannerisms can be properly conveyed over the internet, but when I get home you will all get an expert performance.

What is surely the most frustrating thing about being in the position of a foreigner interested in romance is that there is very little one can do to educate oneself on the social cues and norms of French dating. I already mentioned the insufficiency of my sociological text, though certain other texts seem a bit more useful. You may have heard of the novel (though the author may prefer the term "dramatized history") of A Year in the Merde, which is the story of an Englishman's first year working in Paris. Now naturally there are the differences between myself and the protagonist as far as age (he's 27) and profession (mainly that he has one), but I find that the crucial difference between us as far as romance is concerned is that of sex. This is an appropriate phrase in two senses: 1) we are of two different sexes, male and female (myself being the female), and 2) being a man, he is therefore stereotypically focused on having as much sex as possible with attractive French women. Perhaps that is a bit harsh, but I think those who have read the book to the point that I have (only through Nov, thus far) would agree. But despite its uselessness as an applicable guide for my French love life, I recommend it highly as a very, very funny book.

Back to French Dating 101:

If there are subtle, unspoken interactions going on between men and women (or women and women, as my audience is anything but heterocentric), my American eyes are too dull to catch them. The proper way to flirt without being brazen or coming off as easy still escapes me.

And asking advice is absolutely no help at all! My host parents are very helpful when I want advice on how to avoid men or refuse an advance (though I wish I'd had said counsel a bit earlier...), but I have no idea how to accept an advance or how to tell if a guy is worthwhile or creepy. Or what if I'm not sure? Is there a way to indicate that I am interested in a casual, non-committal date without inviting "incidents" like those I described before? Must I refuse him, just to be safe? Because if a woman gives the slightest hint that she could possibly be interested, the French seem to view it as the woman's own fault if she is pursued to the point of stalking. The attitude is almost one of, "well, you smiled in public, so you must surely have known that three men would follow you to your house and insist on dating you. You should not have smiled in the first place."

To be perfectly honest, the attitude annoys me. I never realized how much power American women have until I came here. I just feel entitled to having a man respect my wishes when I tell him that I'm not interested. I feel entitled to safety from men harassing me when I venture out on my own. --Don't get me wrong, Paris is a very safe city and the most I ever feel is extremely pissed. I don't feel I should worry for my safety so long as I pay attention and don't do anything stupid. But the French philosophy is that women must protect themselves by venturing outdoors only with other women, because men cannot but pursue a woman alone.

And the pursuit is not in the least bit flattering or enjoyable here. Men look at attractive women (and they're all attractive) so boldly, just staring at whatever body part they happen to favor as a girl walks by. They hit on n'import qui (no matter whom), so if a man approaches you, it is not because he's noticed something particular to you that makes him want to make your individual acquaintance; it's because you're a woman and not repellent. And that's all. And as soon as you walk away he will begin to look for another not-unattractive woman to hit on. It's just tiring and frustrating to be seen as a desirable object instead of an attractive person. Maybe I'm mistaken in thinking that American men are any different (no offense meant to the men on this list), but if I am then at least American men are better at disguising it. Which is to say I'm more used to the American game, really, from a sociological perspective. But I'm a bit homesick for American men, so I desire anything but objectivity.

I am grateful to have found a romantic interest to distract me, but alas! I fear this post is too long already and I will just have to postpone description of my sweetheart yet again. It's too important a subject to deal with hastily and in too cramped a space. Patience, my friends!

The Horrors of Parisian Dragueurs!

So...I think I've put it off for long enough...it may be time to tell you all of my new French love.

First of all, let me say that it is not easy to find romance in Paris. The French cultural codes for courting are about as clear as the air in a Parisian nightclub (read: not). I do have a very good book describing stereotypical French/American social misunderstandings, but the section describing romantic interactions in French society all presume that the couple has already been formed, and, as such, gives no advice useful to one seeking any kind of romance.

The only offers I seem to get are from "les Dragueurs," the men who attempt to pick up women on the street, the metro, wherever. Every American woman finds herself prey to these hunters at least once in France, and after that she learns very quickly to imitate the Parisian women in their frostiness. I had to learn my lesson twice.

First a man in Tours approached me while I was innocently taking "artsy" photographs in a park. Not that they had any actual artistic virtues, but they were atempting some kind of aesthetic, so I suppose that is the most fitting title for them. I had been happily walking through the park, looking around, as one does when searching for photographic things in a park, and my gaze met, for the briefest instant, with that of a man sitting on a bench. But apparently in France one cannot smile at the beauty of the world without issuing invitations to men on benches, and so this man felt perfectly at ease approaching me, asking me about my photographs, my plans for the day, and then proceeding to accompany me as I carried said plans out. Now, in the US, if a woman ignores a man he eventually goes away. And if she repeatedly and firmly, though kindly, rejects his invitations for drinks, dinner, dessert, dancing, etc., refuses his compliments, and, when he expresses remorse that he may never see her again, answers with, "well, it doesn't bother me," he begins to see that perhaps there is the slightest chance that she is not at all interested, and he buggers off, to use the English term. But in France, all of these signals will not deter said drageur from following the woman for a full half hour, forty-five minutes. In fact, it was not until this ...person... had actually been so bold as to playfully poke my stomach that I sent him my Look O'Death, which, I am grateful to say, was effective in getting the wanker to piss off.

But Paris was much, much worse. What perhaps bothered me most about "the Paris Incident" was that the gentleman stalker appeared at first to be the former (a gentleman) rather than the latter. I met him when signing up for my English course at the University; after he helped me find the proper room we struck up conversation. I learned that he had finished his masters in Math and was teaching courses while pursing his dream of opening an Italian restaurant (I know...the Math and the restaurant don't add up...he couldn't explain it either...). He spoke English and found my French charming, and I took his number with every intention of calling it, glad at my success in finding a normal Frenchman to help me understand the nuances of French dating.

But ol' Gabs just couldn't leave it at that. After leaving the meeting with my professor, I ran into him on my way out. I was headed to work, but I was willing to give him a 20 second run-down of the meeting and the customary French cheek kisses before dashing off to the RER station. But about 5 minutes after leaving the building, I heard my voice behind me and found that Gabriel had, without alerting me to the fact, followed me for some blocks. A bit creeped out, I requested that he point me to the Metro, thinking that the Parisian would know a bit of Paris. But he proceeded to steer me in entirely the wrong direction dispite my protests and map, making my detour all the more awful by describing his plans for our date that he had decided would take place the following week. The details of an Italian dinner, a movie, maybe some dancing if the night isn't too late--all of which I like, under normal circumstances--grated on my ears. I wasn't truly angry until I realized that his misdirection had ensured that I would be late for work, and leaving a five year old girl waiting at her school thinking she's forgotten is not something I take lightly. It earned him a Look O'Death... that had absolutely no effect. That's one thing about living in Paris: you get used to public hostility.

As I soon as I'd untangled the knot of a route he had woven, I silently and furiously made my way to the Luxembourg stop. Gabby accompanied me, quite unwanted and unacknowledged, as I descended and caught my first line. As I made my change at the enormous Chatelet stop, I took comfort in the crowds of people that I darted quickly between to evade him. Surely I had managed to loose him. Surely. But no. As I boarded the purple line I was horrified to find my stalker as close on my heels as ever. Something had to be done.
"So where are you going," I asked in my most intimidating and hostile English.
"Weell, were ahr you goeen?" he asked. Oooo, no, I am far too smart for that. A four year old who has been warned by McGruff the Crime Dog not to talk to strangers is too smart to fall for that. Of course, said four-year old probably could have warned me not to talk to this creep in the first place, too...
"I asked you first."
"Weell, en fait, I weell ride zis to ze end of ze leen et meke a connesion zere."
"Well I'm getting off at Madeline. Because it's close to where my job is. Not close to where I live. I live far, far away from there, so if you're going to look for where I live, I'll give you a hint, NOT NEAR MADELINE." (I live about 3 minutes from Madeline, in the same building as the girl I sit for.)
"O. Butt, ah, you weell col me nezt weeek pour la rendez-vous?"
"Yes. Of course." (Not a chance in Hell.)
"O. Okey. Good, becuz I wood laike to eet Italien food wiz--"
"Here's my stop, gotta go!"
I descended and waited to watch the train pull away with my stalker still on it before I breathed a great big sigh of relief and ran to assure a crying Marie that I had not forgotten her.

Horrifying, eh? In fact, retelling these tales has completely exhasted me emotionally, and I simply cannot continue, even to tell you of the charming new sweetheart who freqently occupies my thoughts... *lovesick sigh.* So you may all eagerly anticipate part two of this tale quite soon. Until then, I send you all the love I can spare (though that quantity is deminishing daily!)

Dissolving my cultural bubble

I must admit, I have deceived you, my friends. I tried to act like everything was okay, when, in truth, I have been homesick, lonely, and the slightest bit depressed for the past few weeks, ever since I arrived in Paris. I think the reason is that I had expected to find that flying to France would automatically submerge me in French culture. But being here, I find that I am not in France at all. I am, in fact, trapped in a little American bubble. I hadn't figured how absolutely American I actually am. Walking down the Rue St. Michel, which I assure you is very much in France, I am still essentially in the states, since my American perspective prohibits me from seeing or acting in any way but my native one. I'm still waiting to arrive, so to speak.

In the beginning, I avoided the tourist sites and hid in my room for a few days, waiting for the phenomenon to go away before venturing out to "profiter" (a favorite verb of the French that is roughly the equivalent of "to take advantage of", though I don't think it can be applied to a person) from the sights the city has to offer. I kept waiting for the homesickness and the loneliness and the lifelessness to go away, so I could enjoy what I was going out to see.

It was my birthday that really saved me from sinking into depression. One simply cannot spend the final day of one's teenager-hood (forgive me the made up word, it's late and I'm a bit tired; do email me if you think of a better one) hiding out in one's room the whole day. So on the eve of my 20th birthday, I forced myself out of bed and out into the streets of Paris. Though I did not set out with a particularly bright outlook, I found that food is an excellent way to improve one's attitude, and enjoyed a delicious quiche, followed by my last teenage ice cream cone. I found myself in Rue Mouffetard (cute market street) and did some window shopping--even tried a dress on. I stopped in at the 5th arrondisement Mairie (read: town hall) and discovered a free exhibit on Carlos Carra, an Italian painter, followed by a degustation of wine, coffee, and biscuits, the result of which being that I can now heartily recommend to any who love rose wines Tenuta la Tenaglia, Grignolina del Monferrato Casalese.

Encouraged by this successful day of exploration, I ventured out again on my 20th birthday. My academics gave me the best present a student can ask for, and by that I do not refer to the fact that my early class was cancelled. I managed to work out my schedule perfectly, as a girl in the full section that I needed to be in decided she needed to be in my section of the Writing class. Joy! I munched on a 5 Euro* crepe for lunch (see below to understand why the price is important), and set out to go see Voltaire's grave in the Pantheon, but never made it there. I ran into my friend Hannah, who introduced me to her new friend, Jeanne Faustine, in the park. Jeanne Faustine is very nice, and through her I had a fantastic educational experience on the subject of French slang, vulgar and non. Eventually I had to rush off to babysit, where I played a typical French game with Marie, who is a terrible cheat. I ended the evening with my dear friend and birthday twin (though she turned 21), chocolate cake, and delicious French wine.

Since then, my efforts to get out and profiter from what Paris has to offer have been rewarded by a Goya drawing exhibit; the double-deambulatoire of Notre Dame de Paris, not to mention the spectacular abside; the view from the top of the Institude du monde arab; a fantastic French movie (if you see one movie in the next year, make it "Je vais bien, ne t'en fais pas." It was an absolute masterpiece of a film); delicious Greek food; and a street concert in Place St Michel that included the music of Elton John, Natalie Imbruglia, the Eagles, and George Michael. The best moment was when the entire crowd joined in for John Lennon's Imagine. It was amazing.

My point in telling you all of this is not inform you of my depressed state at the beginning of this stay, nor is it to provide a rather dull list of all the fun things I've been up to in the past few days. Though I can't remember Tolkien's words well enough to paraphrase, he mentions in The Hobbit that pleasant times do not make for very interesting stories, and to some extent I
agree with him; I will not often send you such uninteresting emails, my dear friends. But I felt I must find some way to illustrate what I have been grateful and astounded to discover: that if you put forth the effort of getting out into the city, Paris does the rest. It thrills you day after day after day with exciting new experiences. It leads you down little side streets when you
think you're getting lost, until you discover the gem of a restaurant/museum/park/whatever that Paris wanted you to find all along. It offers so many cultural events from so many different cultures, to the point of overwheming you even, until you remember, with gratitude, that you have the course of a year to enjoy as many of them as you can. I just hope a year will be enough.

And do I still feel stuck in American culture? Yea, sometimes. But I can feel that cultural bubble that separates me from Paris beginning to weaken and dissolve. And for the first time since arriving, I'm starting to enjoy my stay.

*The price of a crepe is important because crepes are truly an commodity where you get what you pay for. For example, the 2 Euro crepe I snacked on the other day consisted of crepe and strawberry jam; it was a yummy snack, but not really a meal. It was very different from my 5 Euro crepe, which was packed with cheese, ham, and mushrooms, and which I barely had room to finish, despite my light breakfast.

The naming of streets is a difficult matter. It isn't just one of your holiday games.

The streets here are schitzophrenic. They can't quite decide who they are or how they prefer to be called. As I was walking today, the street I was in took four different names within four blocks. It introduced itself to me as Rue Erasme, but apparently Erasmus was too ancient and scholarly a person to emulate, and it changed to Rue Pierre Brossolette. Sensing that I was warming up to the liberation hero, the street immediately changed name, epoch, and personality, and became Rue Jean Calvin. Jean, as you know, is the equivalent of what we call John, though Calvin was, in fact, French. Though why the French use the Latin derivation of his last name instead of his birth name, Chauvin, is beyond me. Fortunately I didn't have long to ponder this, since the street was through with personnifying itself and decided that it would much rather be an Epee de Bois (a wooden sword). Curious as I was to see what it would morph into next, I did not get the opportunity; my wooden sword street ended as it thrust itself into Rue Monge, though I cannot see why the mathematically-minded Count deserved to be run through with such a weapon. (All biographies are available on Wikipedia, by the way, and I recomend them as highly interesting, if you're into that sort of thing. Which I am. Clearly.)

The sudden existance/non-existance of streets presents another navigation problem. When streets exist for only one block, as they often do here, it's hard to place them or create a mental map of the city. One can never assume that a street extends out until it reaches another street, or that two streets that should intersect will. Most of the streets are set at awkward angles as well, making a direct route a rarity. All of these factors make a map absolutely essential when visiting Paris--far more so than in New York or any city so logically laid out. Manhattan streets continue in a straight line, perpendicular to their counterparts, and they maintain the same name block after block after block, with relatively few exceptions. When I have finished with Paris, I will make my way to New York and laugh with mocking condescension at the simplicity of their street plans, then secretly breathe a sigh of relief and gratitude for the beautiful grid of clarity before me.

The nice thing about having a one block street, however, is that it makes locating the space for which you search fairly easy. For example, it's pretty easy to find the Art History building of Paris 4 if you know what street it's in, since Rue Michelet exists for about 100 yards and has only two imposing looking University buildings (if a building in Paris looks imposing, chances are it's a government building, a museum, a historic landmark, or a university).

But I am proud to say that I am managing exceptionally well, so long as I have my maps handy in unfamiliar regions, and even without my maps in the familiar zones. Though I adventured in many an unfamiliar territory today, not once was I lost. Today.

One day at a time, eh?

The Classless Student

So now that everyone knows the basics of my setup, I suppose I should proceed to details about what I've been up to...

The most obvious thing I should be doing is going to class. It is, after all, a STUDY abroad program. But classes are a bit tricky at the moment. Paris 4 (my host university) doesn't start classes until Oct 2. So you ask, "Why then, Stephanie, did you leave at the end of August? To twiddle your thumbs for a month in France?" Admittedly, France is such that even thumb-twiddling is more pleasant here. But I came early for a two-week orientation in Tours, a lovely town in the Loire Valley, and to get myself situated in Paris a few weeks before
the stress of classes. In both locations, Sweet Briar has provided courses to review the language and the univerity methodology (which is to say, the method of teaching and learning in a French educational institution). Now that those orientation courses are over, I've begun the Sweet Briar courses that I will take throughout the semester. I have a writing course with an amazing Professor who lovingly lets us call her Madame Atelier (roughly translated as Madame Workshop, because the course is called Writing Workshop). I am also taking a course in French Theatre, which means I get to attend 5 French plays in Paris completely free of charge. It's a pretty good deal, I must say. Plus it's been cool to learn this week how ritual sacrifice in ancient Greece morphed into the theatre we know and (sometimes) love today.

The French University system is fundamentally different from our own, and one of the differences is the approach to planning the semesters that each country has. For example, in the US students look at the catalogue themselves (usually online) and fit their courses together like a puzzle according to the hours and the importance of each course. This is done about half-way through the preceding semester, and though there is definitely movement in the first few
weeks of the semester, the majority of the students have the majority of their schedules figured out in advance. (This is how it works at MHC, anyways. Please correct me if I am wrong to generalize that this is true for most colleges. I know of at least one very dramatic exception, but I think I've got it about right.)

The French, however, do not seem to value scheduling things that far in advance. The evidence I cite is the fact that the hours of the courses set to commence October 2nd were not fixed until just yesterday, September 22nd. Meaning that there is a space of 10 days between when you can actually plan your schedule and when the courses begin. It's been driving all the American students mad with the anxiety of having no solid plan. Not like anything's really written in
stone, but the illusion of a strong plan to guide the way is comforting. But NO! Deprived of our crutch, we were! I'm relieved, though, that I've finally made some solid decisions about which courses to take, and I've gotten things narrowed down to some choice options. But more on that when I know which ones are the one's I'll actually take!

Other fun things I've been doing:
-Wandering about parks and gardens
-Eating lots of yummy cheese
-Buying my first bottle of wine (at 19, and it's legal! But my wine buying experience is terribly lacking; the wine was awful.)
-Picnicing on the lawn in front of the Eiffel tower at dusk (it looks amazing when they light it up)
-Going to nifty film/art exhibits by Agnes Varda
-Buying pastels to do the American (artist) in Paris thing
-cutting my hair obscenely short
-mispronouncing every word I attempt to say and being corrected by 5-year-olds who then further complicate the matter by trying to teach me the word in Italian as well (O, by the way, I'm also babysitting).