The Magic of the Flute

Self-note in Moleskine: when asking Fabien about dress codes for events, instead, ask what kind of event it is.

the opera was modern opera, more of a performance art than stuffy, ol', sleepy opera. It's too bad that the other MPA students were too tired tonight to go out. School has been draining in all fronts, but I had quite fun at the opera tonight. Fabien and his friends went, as well, so I had company though I was planning to be there alone. Costume design rocked and there was a punk rocker as Monostatos. The orchestra was a 6-piece violin, 1 bass, 1 French horn, 1 flute, 1 pianist, 1 conductor (as I could see) and they were practically into the audience. The conductor was leaning back on to one of the empty theatre chairs. Actors ran in from the stage and from an audience door on the side, through the audience, bringing the opera to the people in a sense. Hopefully I'll get copies of the photos from Fabien for you. His girlfriend, Boram, was the soprano as Papagena. Absolutely stunning costume and a fantastic singer.

In the meantime, a 2nd year MPA student (did his first year at a partner school, Hertie in Berlin) has posted some photos from our orientation week. Take a look!

Tomorrow is legalities with the carte de sejour (long-stay visa) and some laptop bag shopping, and maybe a low-end pair of black pants. I guess I'm succumbing to the pressure of black. I feel too colorful and wayyyy too relaxed in my clothing. I had forgotten how well-dressed the Europeans are for all events - even an opera is a fashion show of 'dressing down.'

Placement

I tried my best, really I did. Well, okay, really I just tried period. The French written wasn't so hard because so much of it is a lot like Spanish. Although the reading comprehension/questions was a bit more difficult although piecing together words and the general impression of the articles was the key. The independent "write a story about one of the children in these photos" was hilarious. The photo I picked was this one along with my very choppy French story about a boy who is a man in Italy making the wine and loves wine and has many women and many children and a house in Paris and likes the music and likes to eat and is very happy. [rolling eyes]

My conversation with the French teacher went rather well, I thought. She - of course, as those are those types of professionals (god bless them too!), refused me any words in English but would give me a word in French if I asked. When did I arrive and what had I been doing. I tossed out a few words like Supermarche (soo-pehr-mahr-shay), musique, un ami, des amis, Louvre and generally tried to French everything up by just adding an accent to it.

I tried to study my old notes from this past Spring's stats class but Monday was all about squeezing in registration, carte de sejour information, Mac wifi (wee-fee) IT guys (Non, c'est ne pas Lundi. Demain!), exams, La Poste, lunch, etc... So, I only got a few mintues and I guess I didn't even need to bring my Stats calculator down to class because it ended up being all these terms and definitions. So I kind of explained-around the actual answer. Like, I knew it, but I couldn't remember it so I just tried to get to the point the long way.

Econ was right after. Now, I have to say that my Stats class this past spring at MATC wasn't bad. In fact, while the professor was a bit hard to understand, he certainly tried to explain the course work and I felt compelled and incentivized to do well. Intro to Basic Econ at MATC was taught by a crazy cat lady doctor of econ who also taught little kids how to play piano. Yeah, that's the extent of what I learned in that class. OH! And she and her husband ran a storage facility, too. Oh, and her dad has alzheimers or something and kept his cash in the freezer and she had to fly out to Seattle to help him. Yeah. That's it. So, when I got the y=mx+b I had to reach back to a bit of this class but mostly just remembering it from college or something. It wasn't too hard to remember that formula and I always liked algebra; dividing both sides, multiplying to zero, solving for the x or y. But the next question was plot a demand and supply line of beer at 7 Euros. Um, yay beer! Um, no plotting. The last question was about some guy who had a lawn mowing service and had clients and supply and demand. I wrote at the top of the page, "Well, I hope that this guy makes enough to support himself and his family and can buy the 7 Euro beer!" If you know nothing and you're not going to be punished for it, what the heck?!

I plan to take French both years so if I can place in a more intermediate level then I'll get 2 decently challenging years of studying, writing, and reading. I was hoping to place well in Stats and Econ, too. 1A is first semester and 1B is second semester. If I could skip to level 2 then I'd free up second semester room for other elective courses having to do with theory and practice of public affairs instead of learning the tools to evaluate the systems.

So, after all that I found out today that I made French 2 (intermediate), Stats 2, and Econ 1A. Well, that's pretty damn good in my opinion. Tapping that drawer in my brain containing the 1 year of French in 9th grade high school in Argentina and self-initiative courses in Stats and Econ. I get 1 free elective next semester then and advance a bit all around.

So, now to register for courses.

Oh, no, administrative registration has nothing to do with registering for courses. The admin registration is all about paperwork to become a student. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, bureaucracy is a French word after all. Either way, I'm missing only 2 pieces but was allowed to become a student (copy of my private health insurance and a RIB which is like an authorization for automatic withdrawl of payments from my bank). Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.

I know, I know. All this moaning and complaining and your'e thinking, "Shut up. At least you're in Paris!" Well, yes, I am well aware that I am bitching as I walk cobblestone streets and ride the crowded metro, eat amazingly fresh bread and drink cheap wonderful wine. Yes, I know. But in every place, wherever you are there are complications between the beauty. And I remember this all the time. Even when I have anxiety attacks and think I can't eat and can't leave the apartment. Even when I'm standing next to someone who forgot to wear deoderant. Even when I'm sulking that I don't have enough money to eat sitting down at the restaurant but need to get a sandwich to go. Or when I feel totally unfashionable because I gave up on all-black in my closet and started to introduce colors 3 years ago. I know. And I remember. I'm in my dream. I'm in my goal. I'm in the process of living. I'm where I wanted to be. I've found the change of scenery and the challenges I asked for. Doesn't mean I'm not justified to complain a bit.

Rest assured, I am having a good time. If you didn't stop by Anne's website, take a peek at the fun had by all.

Oh, and by the way, beacuse I know everyone is wondering. There's just no way in heck I'd smoke cigarettes here. I think partly because I practically am with all the second hand smoke indoors, but also the idea of smoking and having to climb 100+ stairs a couple times a day seems horrific to me. There's just been no interest - even after drinking wine or after a stressful day or when I'm bored. I'm super excited for the smoking ban in February though. I'm kind of tired of coughing all the time and having my clothes stinky poo.

The million and one times I chase my tail

Well, I did venture out on Friday night and chose a kind of punk rock bar over the rugby game - obvious, no? It's always nice to know see the stereotype broken all over the world. Punks are not mean or rude or dirty or dumb. Ok, well, maybe sometimes they're dirty. But they're rarely elitist - like so many 'normal' people can be. A foreigner, with a cutesy haircut and regular clothes can find her way and be comfortable sitting in a black-painted bar with hand-welded-metal railings. The bartender let me sit and think, left me alone to my drink and then started a conversation. His limited English and my limited French - although both languages based in Latin of course makes it easier. I ended up talking to some of the patrons and - FINALLY - learning some bad words in French. Although.. there's the problem of pronouncing them correctly so I won't be swearing anytime soon.

Friday lasted a bit later than usual - ahem - 3am. So Saturday was a bit slow in my brain but it wasn't a heavy day. Kimberly, Anne, Caroline, Patricia, and I went out shopping. This isn't like "Let's hit Chanel and buy dresses" ya'll, it's more like, where's the semi-less-expensive part of the city where we can buy feminine business laptop bags that look kinda chic. So, most of us slightly brain-dead, we wandered the Marais until we realized that it was Saturday. And, on Saturdays the Marais - wherein a lot of the Jewish community resides - is closed.

I could go on and on about this. I'm not a moron, and most of the people in my program aren't morons. So, we knew that coming here to this international program, to this distinct European city, that we were in for a challenging and adventurous ride. 6 from USA, 1 Argentine, 1 Brazilian, 3 Canadians (2 of which are French-Canadians), 3 Chinese, 3 Colombian, 1 French, 2 Indonisian, 2 Indian, 1 Iranian, 2 Japanese, 3 Korean, 2 Peruvian, 1 Sierra Leonean, 1 Singaporian, 1 Thai. We're prepared for anything and nothing.

There's a distinct difference between reading about something and living it. I read about 7/8 of a fantastic book on French culture, history, society called "Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong." And it gave me a sense of what I was in for, but there's nothing like experiencing it. I've been carrying a small Moleskine and my god how it's come in handy! Along with the bad words in French, I walk this city and take notes.

*Marais district - closed on Saturdays (Jewish stores), closed on Sundays (non-Jewish); get bagels on Sunday! Do not shop for handbags on Saturday!
*October 8 - no metro stop at Rue de Bac where school is - until December
*Pizza a exporter on rue des Martyrs & rue des Abesses - Cynthia (vegetarienne) 10,50E; Marguerite (tom-mozz) 10E; La Pignatta
*Le Nouveau Carillon, 1 rue des Abbesses
*Lava (laundromat) 7 days: 7am-10pm (Berta from Colombia who was deported from London and left her two sons in Colombia is there from 9am-6pm ironing and watching over laundry, tip her)
*Monoprix: closed Sundays! Mon-Sat 9am-10pm
*Supermarche: closed MONDAYS!
*Le Couloir bar by metro Pigalle - "couloir" is also like "neck-mouse" in French which makes no sense in English but is funny
*Ricard is a drink that is like absynthe in taste (anise) but not in alcoholic idea
*Bastille - metros Faubourg / St. Antoine towards Nacion; go to Charrone, Roquette; bars: Avenue Ledru, rue de Lappe; market Sundays 9-1
*Bercy - metro Bercy; Parc and Expo and huge multi-plex movie theatre
*Loire Valley for weekend retreat (looks kind of weird)
*Video ATM thing 1 film: 8E, 2: 15E
*5 a sec - dry-cleaning, Closed Sundays! Mon-Sat 8am-20h
*Phone House, Closed Sundays! Monday 11am-19h, Tues-Sat 10am-19h30
*Picon (avec bierre)

Lately, the slogan has been, "Well, it's not a city of convenience or efficiency. B is for bureaucracy. P is for Paris."

So, as I was saying.. Saturday was not the day to shop in the Marais. But as you'll soon see by the photos, we wandered around a bit without quarrel or qualm. It's very good bonding time and when I hear that some of the students go out together and I am not along I wonder what secrets I'll miss out on or what new information is shared. It's not jealousy, but curiosity and bonding.

So, the Canadians (Anne, Caroline, Patricia) and Kimberly (USA) and I made do without stores and shopped as we could. It seems like things take a few hours longer than they should which makes me wonder if time really is slightly warped in Paris and Einstein would find so if he were alive. Or, perhaps it's just talking and walking and not paying attention to where we're going and not knowing on the map which tiny street is which. After a while people started peeling off. We rambled over to the tip of the Ile de Saint Louis facing away from the Notre Dame. It seemed a rather Parisian thing to do, just sit on the edge of the island as the sun set romantically. Anne, Kimberly and I were wrapped up in getting to know each other under some amazing sun highlights. I noticed a couple of guys behind us along the Seine who looked distinctly north American and were talking English but took no particular note of them. Another guy came up to us and asked for a cork opener -- a staple I plan to carry from now on. We didn't have one but the north Americans did.

Turns out the two guys with wine - who shared with all of us - were Parisian and gave great tips on nights out. And the other two were Canadian guys. They left us girls on the Seine as they went to dinner. We decided it was time to make our way through the city to find some food and headed back to the left bank. Two or three blocks away we spotted a Canadian bar and restaurant. In honor of Anne we decided to stop in and ran into the Candaidan guys.

Cut to like 7 hours later. I haven't laughed so damn hard in such a long time. (Kimberly has long hair, Anne has short black hair) It was one of those nights were you feel like your laughing might be construed as fake because it just keeps coming and coming and coming but I was howling! Howling! My sides and stomach hurt! And it was quite a bonding moment for us girls.

Well, I missed the metro and the noctilien bus and had to resort to taxi.

Because I need a bank account to have a Navigo pass to have a way to get a Velib. But, as I said before, do I really want my first turn at the Velib to be after a few glasses of wine?

Sunday I woke up later than I would have liked with a slightly cloudy head. It wasn't the bottom of the barrel wine so I didn't have a huge pounding headache. But I certainly wasn't up for any of anything. Instead I focused on applying to the Berlin conference and doing laundry and later that night went to dinner with Wilfried and his girlfriend Sarah.

The weekends seem brief respites from the impossibilities of bureaucracy. Monday I thought I'd get administration registration done, Tuesday my carte de sejour (long stay visa for students) and Wed my class registration. Well, let's say that Tuesday I got my administrative registration and have a student ID card! Friday I'll probably get the carte de sejour (no rush really since I have 3 months before I become illegal, although only a few weeks for the school to help me with the process), and hopefully registration will go smoothly.

I make it sound so easy though. Ha.

I'll have to go into more details on the actual process at a bit later time. It's bedtime now as I have a class from 9-5 tomorrow and Thursday: Situating Ourselves in Complex Situations. ... no idea what the heck that means but it's taught by the Director so it's got to be important. Going to a lower budget opera Wed night and maybe a club on Friday. Have to keep the balance somehow.

Thanks to my mum for the rocking awesome box of warm clothes and other essentials.
Thanks to Sadie - one of the best interns EVER - for the wonderful cards.
Many of my friends have sent well-wishes, encouragement, and personal stories via email. You all are the bestest ever. It's very helpful to hear the good cheer. I'm not an isolated island here, but I do miss your faces, your hearts, your words, your hugs. Thank you for sharing them in any way possible.

Night,
L.

new photos: around Douai, apartment, Sacre Coeur, Pigalle/Clichy

I remember the purpose now

All the inadequate feelings of late were just a reflection, perhaps, of being with so much 'vacation' time and a feel of no purpose. Even Henry Miller needed to write in order to live here.

My first day was intense and encouraging. We walked through introductions to overviews of courses to details of legalities to stay in France. Our study trip is to India for 10 days which just thrills me to no end. I'm completely prepared to eat with the right and wipe with the left. [wait, is it the other way around?!] Also, there's an opportunity to represent our class at a conference in Berlin or Singapore. It's a difficult decision. I've been to Berlin so I know how much fun it can be, almost all who apply will be accepted. I've never been to Singapore but only 2 will be accepted. And, they're roughly the same time period.

I'm slightly ahead of the game as far as legal issues and procedures. I guess it pays to be anal about details [aka a planner] and take initiative.

One note I'm considering from today is whether my mood was lifted because of the purpose, the language, the first day of the next two years of my life - or all of it. Either way, I'm in a lot better mood and feel more confident to settle into enjoying and risking more in Paris. ... Like, maybe I'll go wander into the nearby brasserie and join in the Ireland v. France rugby watching. Just for kicks.

Adjusting

Well, it's been 9 days.

I didn't read the sign in the door of the electricity shop. So I bought a too-expensive transformer which may have blown out a plug for my battery re-charger. Or, maybe the guy insisted that it said 3.5v when I could see it said 8.5v and even when I argued it he refused it. So, "no returns or exchanges" was a hard lesson. He offered me a universal adapter for 29E but knocked it down to 20E - just for me, just for today - and I found it for 14,50E at the local Monoprix. A 2-fingered bird to Mr. Electricity. And a kick in my pants for being gullible and taken advantage of.

I learned panier [pahn-ee-eh / basket] from the security guard at my local Monoprix. I guess the equivalent of Monoprix would be like Walgreens or Target, I guess. So, now our nicknames for each other are "Monsr Panier" and I'm "Madame Baskeet."

I haven't bothered to correct people on the Madame part. Not sure if it's necessary or not.

From May until July it was "something is pulling me to Paris." From July to August it was "What am I doing?" and often "What the hell am I doing?" For the past 9 days it's been "Am I sure I want to do this?"

From afar Paris looks beautiful and romantic, cosmopolitan, sexy and racy, and framed in temporary tourism stops. From up close its structure, its foundation, its architecture amaze me. Its people surprise me with immense kindness and random exhasperation, infrequent but evident blindness to race through love and often an obvious sensitivity to chic through socialization. Up close my life here hasn't been about museums and cathedrals, elaborate meals or arm-loads of famous labels. I wasn't imagining it to be, but the reality of setting up shop and settling in to a completely different culture and world is a bit of a shock.

I have been so lucky to have already a good friend in town, Wilfried. We met through friends of friends on the internet. He and his girlfriend live on the east side of Paris but he owns an apartment over in the 18e which is literally across the Blvd de Clichy which is literally 1 block away from me in the 9e. Wilfried came by the day after I arrived in Paris and took me out around in my neighborhood. He gave me a run up rue Lepic, over to the Sacre Coeur, down through the flea market bazar, on the metro and over to the Marais, Les Halles, introduced me to some of the best people of the city and let me in to his most favorite bistro, too.

I have been so lucky to have a welcoming and down-to-earth landlord. Fabien is an art dealer, not much older than me if not the same age. This past Tuesday, in cooperation with an associate, he hosted an art opening for Akkitham Narayanan. The Sunday before, he invited me to stop by to meet the artist and see the works as Tuesday would be too packed to actually get a view. Sometimes I fumble when I'm nervous, sweat a bit too much, and feel all gangly like a teenager. Regardless, I tried to fake calm, cool, collected. I met a few friends of Fabien, and his girlfriend, Boram Lee. Boram is a studying soprano and invited me to see her in the Magic Flute at Theatre du Gymnase this coming week. I was fortunate to meet Mr. Narayanan briefly and see a few, small, original Picasso sketches in Fabien's office.

This is all 5 days after arriving. I'm still jet lagged and feeling mildly moronic, surreal, and overwhelmed in the language and visual parts of my brain.

I have bought a cell phone and 45 minutes and 100+ SMS. But in order to get a longer, more cost-efficient contract, I needed a bank account and something to put into it. So, I took the metro down to Saint Germain to Sciences Po to meet with the financial assistant. Arrived early and walked around the Blvd a bit. Yes, I know it's pathetic and sad and an offense to everything unique and good about being outside of the US, but I spotted a Starbucks, and, well, I just wanted to have a sip of bad, watery coffee. Sitting outside, in the Latin Quarter near all the schools it was interesting to see that I hadn't actually gotten all that far by crossing the Atlantic. It's still '80s-reincarnate fashion here, too, with the super tight black pants ala Johnny Rotten, the bad, baggy shirt with wide belt, and the extra effort to look tousled chic.

Meet with the lovely financial assistant who informed me her whole department had just gone through a drastic change. New director, new staff. Not sure what impact that will have, but we'll see won't we? Picked up the Stafford Loan check and made off to find a bank.

The US Embassy listed Banque Nationale de Paris at the wrong address and I thought, of course, Ave des Champs Elysees can't be too long to walk up from Saint Germain and it was a perfectly lovely day. Well. It's a long walk.

Along the way I snapped a couple of pictures of the US Embassy before I was whistled at and told "Non, Madame." Sheesh. At least he gave me directions how to get up the Avenue which, at the base near Place de la Concorde, looks like a huge park with streets just happening to run though it.

I started up what might be some of the the longest blocks yet. No numbers to be seen through the lovely park, I wasn't sure if I was on the right side of the huge Ave or if I was headed up the right direction. Spotted a moped delivery guy - if you need directions, ask the folks who know the streets best! Yup, keep heading up up up and up the Ave almost all the way to the Arc.

But there was no bank. For future reference, BNP Paribas is located at 37 Ave des Champs Elysees - on the southern side of the street. So, feeling defeated all the way up at 136 Ave des C-E, and having asked around, I just gave up a bit and decided that was as far as I'd get for the day. It wasn't the most winning moment of the week, for sure.

On the way back I decided I'd stop at Place de Clichy [Clichy Plaza] to check in with the BNP there. And although it was nearing 5pm, the bank representative gave her best shot at communicating with me. Apparently she thought that Fabien would have to be in-person with his ID card, an official bill with his address on it, and I'd have to fill out some tax paperwork, as well as have my carte de sejour and a ton of other things. There was just no way she'd be able to do it in the short time left and she wasn't in the office on Friday. Defeated again. I was only slightly annoyed though because I've lived in countries that move at a snail's pace and enjoy living more than rushing, enjoy breathing more than suffocating, places that lack the death-by-capitalism mentality. So, defeat in this endeavor wasn't a personal affront in any way.

Friday I hiked around my neighborhood trying to re-create my walk with Wilfried. That evening a few of the Americans and I met for drinks in the Marais neighborhood and spent some time bar-hopping a bit. From what I could see it's going to be a very interesting year. As I said to a previous colleague of mine, "I went out last Fri with 3 of the 5 Americans in my program - Kimberly, ex-aide to Sen Patty Murray (pro-choice) and ex-air reserve or something from Seattle (here w her boy-friend who works for Microsoft so they have the phat party pad); Deena, consultant from Chicago (26 years old!! I feel old) here w her boy-friend who is doing his post-doc in some weird nuclear physics math science engineering thing; and Sean, recently got out of the army and is disappointed after Iraq, from Dallas and voting for Hillary. Nice argument between Kimberly the Obama Girl and him. Deena, her boyfriend, their friend from UK and I just watched." It wasn't a heated debate, but personalities definitely came through in the evening. I don't want to make any statements on how I think they are or who I think they are yet. But I can see Kimberly and I getting along through our Type A personalities. Deena and I through our natural need to worry and care for others. Sean and I as revellesrs.

It was Deena and her boyfriend who showed me how to work the Noctilien bus and get from Chatelet back home. Thank goodness they were around. I'm still not ready to attempt a bike ride on Velib at night after a few drinks.

And it was Kimberly who told me how easy it was to get a bank account at the BNP on Champs Elysees. So, Monday I went back. And it was a lot easier as they're more comfortable dealing with tourists, students, ex-pats. I met a wonderful bank representative who speaks English and walked me through all the steps. I had to sign quite a bit of papers detailing the account, but other than a passport there wasn't much needed. A few days after I received a signature-required letter confirming that I live at my address and done deal. Of course, it will take a bit of time for the Stafford check to clear (3 weeks apparently) and for the wire transfer to settle (5 days?). But I have a bank!

[Sunday, after stopping by the gallery and seeing Fabien, I pushed on south to Montparnasse where I read in my tour guide that there's an art flea market outside on Sundays. Saw some amazing stuff and some completely unimpressive work, too.]

Tuesday night I went to the art opening [see above].


.... more to come ... bedtime for now in prep for my first day at school! Oh, I wonder who will pin my name and bus number on my smock! And, will the kids like me and will I like my teachers?! Kidding..

Next new exciting adventure.

The story of the bag-on-wheels

It's like putting on a pair of sunglasses. The world is still the same only slightly darker and maybe a bit prettier. Your own eyes are concealed and can steal glances here and there. Perhaps it's delayed jetlag but I'm still not so sure that I'm here. Like perhaps - as the cliche goes - it's all a dream, tinted a beige brown and viewed from far inside.




I had put off buying one of the old lady carts. I knew I was going to need one for all the things necessary to haul up to a 6th floor apartment for living: hangers, washcloth, bread, wine, salad, vegetables, olive oil, sugar, coffee, Principe cookies, tampons, etc. But for some reason it seemed rather 'adapted,' rather like permanence, rather like getting into the lot, like becoming one of the regulars. No longer a tourist burdened by heavy shoulder bags. And it just felt too soon for me to start assimilating. Especially since I feel more like I'm a poser. But I'm slowly realizing that I am living here. A bag on wheels. I always associated them with the old ladies in Buenos Aires.

But still... I stopped at a sucker-tourist shop for a big shoulder bag, thinking that that would cut it. But my first trip to the supermarche with all the cereal, the rice milk & soy milk (!!), the Canadian-imported peanut butter, the fresh veggies, the fair trade sugar, the yogurt.. well it weighed too much so I gave in. And then I became one of them - and not yet one of them.

Next door to the supermarche is a type of odds-and-ends shop where I bought the bag-on-wheels. The BOW, of course, made it easier to buy the 20 shirt hangers and 10 skirt hangers over at the nearby low-budget flea market near Metro Anvers. And the BOW made it easier to buy 2 cheap bottles of Rhone wine from Nicolas.


Coming back to the apartment, a French man made a joke with me. I knew it was something like me being too small for the big bag or something about sizes and speed. A lady laughed with him and of course, I wanted to know exactly what it was - not just the gist of the idea. "Pardon?" and I tried to understand that it looked like the bag was chasing me down the street. At least that was my interpretation of the whole conversation. After I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder with a smile to confirm that everything was good between us. I'm hoping he was looking back at me with the same idea and not shaking his head, "Paris overrun by foreigners trying to look like Parisians." [Momentary insecurities arise quite frequently but then are dispelled by a glimpse of beauty or an understood phrase.]

Of course, then the question came. How do I get the BOW up the curving stairwell? Somehow I imagined I'd just pull it up behind me as if it weighed as much as a cloud or some pudgy cupids would swoop down to carry it pinched between their joyful fingers. I had forgotten that I was on the 6th floor and that there were no secret backpack straps lurking inside the BOW. So, I turned my arm and carried it over my shoulder. Slowly each step, thinking about a nice greasy pulley system to set up over my balcony.

Lately I've been thinking about lovers and transport

In rue de Douai apartment, Paris.

Well, there's just too much to share and too little time when things move quickly. I had high hopes on detailing each step I took, found, got help with to get here. I'd like to help others who are interested in participating in this program or in graduate school in Paris for it seems like there's a need.

Last Friday, I met an American student from my program and she hadn't heard anything from the financial aid office here, had no idea that the Free Application for Federal Student Aid 8-page Student Aid Report (FAFSA SAR) had to be post-mailed to Sciences Po, to the chosen loaning bank, and the loan brokers/"police."

On the same hand, as we were comparing our Type-A personalities and the feeling of lack of information for preparation, she reminded me that, well, it's just France. It's another culture. It's another way of living. Details later. General idea now. Sip your lovely cheap wine, amble slowly up the rue, and worry not.

So, I guess, I'll try to piece it all together as things go but I won't hold myself to some rigid tale of step 1 to step 2 to steps all the way to this apartment near Pigalle.

And yes, here I am sipping some of that lovely, cheap, red wine. I've closed the shutters to the main rue outside and am ready to give a bit of reflection thus far.

There are some small tidbits missing from every travel guide and every website I've seen so far. Small tidbits which can explain a culture, an attitude, a mannerism, a way to get lost or be found, a way to get along or feel isolated. For instance, the metro - main arteries of travel in the heart of Paris, the subway - stops running around 12:45/1am.

Now, today is precisely the 6th day I've been in Paris, and the 9th day in total that I've ever been here. Native Parisians and new locals keep telling me I should try the bus or Velib to get from place to place. Well, I've decided that travel through the city will be kind of like Donkey Kong. Level 1 (least difficulty): cab from airport to apartment; Level 2: walk from apartment to food shopping street (rue Lepic), Sacre Coeur, restaurants; Level 3: metro from apartment to school area; Level 4 - take a bus from apartment to Champs Elysees; Level 5 - Velib around; Level 6 - Velib bike at NIGHT; Level 7 - become an expert on Noctilien buses. So far I've gotten to Level 4 without incident and got a brief tour of the night bus last weekend by a fellow student who lives in my neighborhood.

Each a little bit more of a risk. Each a little bit more of confusion. Each a little bit more of a loss of control. Each an adventure, each a success, each a trial. I'm pacing myself with the newness of it all. After all, I'd prefer not to go into culture shock and a slow toe-in to the whole adventure will make for an easier adjustment to the next two years.

So, as I was saying. The metro stops running quite early. They say New York is the city that never sleeps. And I hear Paris is for lovers. Somehow I thought that love would happen at all hours and the quickest link between two hearts would seem to be the metro. Alas, not so. Perhaps there is more romance in the late-night/early morning desire via bicycle.

Anyway, thank goodness for the tour of the Noctilien bus. Inch by inch I'll feel more freedom as I get to know the veins and arteries, short-cuts and bike lanes of Paris.