Les catacombes

Hundreds of years ago (ok, really up until fairly recently) Paris was a dirty, smelly, diseased metropolis over-crowded with the starving poor and the nobles who took sadistic pleasure in abusing them. So it's no wonder that fatal maladies (mal-uh-dee: diseases) like the plague were rampant and sex-crazed Parisians without the money to put a toit (twa: roof) over their heads were having orgies in cemeteries.

Anyway, the few health nuts and moral crusaders left in this historical city decided to petition their corrupt members of government to do away with the millions of bodies buried in Paris' cemeteries (bodies that were seeping disease into the water supply, I remind you), thus also hopefully doing away with wide-open fields of publicfornication, sending these vilains (veel-en: naughty) fornicators back into the city streets where they belonged.

And so, in what must have been one of the most morbid and strangest sights in Paris (and keep in mind this city was occupied by Nazi Germany as well as hordes of Black Eyed Peas fans, so that's pretty morbid!), piles of bones were dug up night after night and carried down the city streets following a procession of priests murmuring derniers sacrements (dern-yay sak-ray-mehn: last rites) in the hope that the city would not forever be haunted by the disturbed ghosts of over six million Parisians who had once been laid carefully to rest. These corps (kor: bodies) were then thrown in a quarry in the middle of the Parisian terre (tehr: earth), now heaped in unidentified stacks of artistic skulls, shin, and hipbone displays creating a tapestry of the art of death in the damp, cold recesses of Paris' underworld.

My friends and I decided to take a coup d'oeil (koo doy: peek) at this site for ourselves (open to tourists of course at a charge of 6 euros a head, pun intended). At first the site of all the bones and death and a whole history of Parisians now piled on top of one another left me awed, then feeling a bit queasy. But after weaving through the underground site bombarded by yet another column constructed entirely out of côtes (kot: ribs), my friends and I were left with nothing to do but make jokes about it.

Regardless of your own fears of death or lack thereof, les catacombes are definitely worth a peek if you ever find yourself in Paris. I dare you.

Printemps à Paris

Andrew so kindly reminded me that today was the official start of printemps à Paris (prawn-temp ah pear-ee: springtime in Paris), a fact that had completely escaped me due to the emotional winter fog that had been haunting me since all the leaves fell off the trees and the bitter cold and gray skies of Paris forced the entire city into hibernation.

The thing is, Paris is wonderful at anytime of year, but I just assume that Parisians, comme moi (kohm mwa: like myself) are really just faking it until the better weather returns.

Sun is rare, our winter wardrobes are looking run-down, and no matter how many fabulous things there are to see and do, no one ever really wants to leave the house when the thermometer only reads 3 degrees outside (that's roughly 43 degrees Fahrenheit for you Americans).


Printemps, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Today, while walking around Notre Dame and just generally enjoying the spring sunshine, I decided to do something I haven't done since November: I went to a bench and simply sat.

I can't explain the beauty of hearing the bells of Notre Dame chime it's parishioners to mass while French children kick balls back and forth to each other while mispronouncing Harry Potter's name in a way only French children could. Old couples who have probably been living in Paris since WWII scooted by hand-in-hand in front of me (the woman in high heels, bien sûr) discussing the latest films, while tourists snapped photos of the blossoms fragrantly blooming on every tree with the immense presence of la cathedrale (lah ka-tee-drahl: cathedral) as the backdrop.

Having the time to soak up what is really an incredibly common and cliched scene in Paris reminded why I love this city so much: because nine months out of the year, she is full of the poetry of day-to-day life in this capital of Europe. But for those three months out of the year known as hiver (ee-ver: winter)? Well, even the Parisian skyline herself gets sick of the gloom after awhile.

La folie

Watching Black Swan yesterday (and in case you were wondering, yes this photo is my rendition of the crazed Black Swan eyes...painted on with magic marker. Because I'm classy like that) and leaving the movie theater only ever-so-slightly disturbed got me thinking: I'm surrounded by la folie (lah foll-ee: the crazy) in Paris to such an extent that not even crazed ballerinas can faze me. In fact, that movie more just left me missing my ballerina days. I don't think this is a proper reaction to have to a psycho thriller, but honestly the characters in this film don't know from crazy. Someone should just walk up and down the streets of Paris for a day, filming the unhinged population here. The result would be riveting, I promise.

Take my voisine (vwa-zeen: neighbor), for example. A woman well into her late fifties or early sixties I'd say, she has been living in the room next-door to me for the past 25 years. Now, in case I forgot to mention it, I live in a glorified shoebox. There's barely room enough to fart let alone feel at home. Yet this woman has managed to live in this shoebox atop seven flights of stairs without an ascenseur (ass-ens-oor: elevator)--nor a shower, but I have actively chosen not to let my mind wander too long on this litle tidbit of information-- for the past quarter century. So, as you can guess, if this woman wasn't crazy before she moved in, sheer claustrophobia has assured her speedy nosedive into manic bliss in recent years, creating a nosy, loud mouth mad woman who has decided to live her life by one motto: Why ask for things nicely when you can scream? After spending countless nights trying to drown-out the sounds of this woman berating every single person living on my floor (including myself), I've come to the conclusion that I just simply have to accept that this woman is totally and completely mental. And avoid speaking to her at any cost.

Then I have one or two choice colleagues (who shall remain nameless) who have chosen to take it upon themselves to criticize my every move at work. Apparently this is simply a matter of cultural differences. As an American, I'm used to the occasional “'atta girl!” and “good jobs” whereas French children grow up getting feedback more along the lines of “why are you such an idiot?” and “you're nothing but a troublemaker”. This means that positive reinforcement, sadly, doesn't seem to exist beyond the age of five for Frenchies. I've chosen to label this particular cultural trait as la folie, while French people still seem to view shameless degradation as a necessary step towards developing a thick skin (and losing all sense of self worth in the process, I would imagine).

Of course, there are also the many colorful fous (foo: crazies) that always occupy any city or townscape, to which Paris is not immune. I haven't experienced this personally, but one of my friends was called a salope (sal-ohp: whore) by a 70 year-old Parisian woman because my friend wouldn't let the woman cut in line at the marché (marshay: grocery store). I'm sure my days of being berated by a folle (fohl: deranged) French grandmother are right around the corner. I can't wait.

Yes, bien sûr (bee-en soor: of course) Paris is filled with excitement, beauty, and pleasure. You could live here your entire life and never want for something to do (as long as you have money in your poche [poh-sh: pocket], that is!)...however, if you've seen Black Swan, then you've experienced just a glimpse what day-to-day life is like in Paris: creamy unparalleled beauty on the outside with a schizophrenic, paranoid, and hyper-competitive nutty inside. In fact, Paris seems to celebrate la folie as yet another intricate art that makes this city great. After all, a city just isn't a city without a little grunge factor, and the citizens of Paris definitely step-up to the plate where that's concerned. As is the case with any cosmopolitan city in the world, j'imagine (juh ee-maj-een: I imagine).

Instead of leaving it all to imagination, however, why not share your favorite "bitch be crazy!" story in the comments below? Because there's nothing I take more pleasure in than reading about people who have been in more awkward situations than myself.

Bon courage

I'm not sure when it first started, because sometimes it takes me farrrr too long to notice the most obvious things, but for the past few months I've become increasingly confused by all the maîtresses (may-tress: teachers) at my school adding "bon courage" (bone koor-aj: best of luck) to the end of their au revoirs (oh vwa: goodbyes) everytime I leave the room. Almost as an afterthought as I'm collecting my papers and heading out the door, I shout out my usual "Merci! Au revoir!" (mehr-see oh vwa: thank you! Goodbye!) to which the teacher responds "Merci! Bon courage!". Without fail. Every. Single. Class.



Maybe I'm just stingy with my feelings of goodwill, but for me good luck is only something I give out in dire situations, and if you want me to wish you the best of luck, well then you're really going to have to earn it. Taking an exam? Getting a root canal? Being audited by the IRS? Present me with these situations and I'll bon courage you all the way to next Tuesday.  But walking out of the classroom? Somehow that doesn't seem to merit a best of luck occasion.  But apparently I'm the only person in the Paris metropolitan area who shares this sentiment.



At first these teachers' adamant yet somehow lackadaisical bon courage's creeped me out. I felt like all my coworkers knew something I didn't, as if I were about to walk into a bomb raid completely unprepared, with only the luck wished upon me by people I barely even know as protection.  Or perhaps I've been looking so completely haggard and stressed out lately that they assumed I could just use all the day-to-day charitable luck I could get. Because, yes, in fact, I do need the best of their luck.  But I don't want them to know that.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe these teachers are onto something. Paris does require a bit of luck, especially when you're a dirt-poor teacher/fille au pair (fee oh pear: nanny). Between battling the crowd on the métro, wiping snotty noses and being told by a five year-old I'm an evil person, I'm pretty much convinced only la chance (lah shans: luck) will get me out of my work life alive. Yet I've also come to realize that in a city like Paris, everyone--not just me--is riding on a whole lot of luck.

Let's face it: Paris is fabulous and if you're living here you're probably already an incredibly lucky soul anyway.  But, if you're not careful, this city will also eat away at your will to live.  Between paying five dollars for a baguette, being gouged out the eyes for rent every month, and having to deal with Parisians who aren't afraid to start a fight with you over the fact that you cut them off on the sidewalk, Paris definitely carries a mean-streak that seems to be a proud and everlasting mark of it's grittier, bohemian, pre-European Union roots.  Which explains why wishing a fellow Parisienne (pahr-eez-ee-en: Parisian woman) like myself bon courage at the end of the day isn't meant in pity (I hope!), but instead might simply be a kindhearted exchange between two people in the know: Paris will kick your ass but, if you've got a lot of courage, Paris might also make all of your wildest dreams come true.  In the meantime, we can all use the very best of any luck we can get.