Happy Birthday January!

There are a ton of my favorite people celebrating birthdays in January. I haven't made the post office deadline of 2 weeks ago to mail you all fun French cards, so I take this moment to wish you all a wonderful new year in your life. I hope you can look back on this past year with a feeling of accomplishment, joy, strength, and love. May the next year be all that and more for each of you.

Happy birthday to Jennie P, Emily C, Bridget H, Karla S, Jennifer O, Sara F, Bill D, Josh L, Mom, Will C, Simone H, and Dad!!

I wanted to give you a birthday cake, but




it's been hard to find a French birthday cake.



When you search for "birthday cake" on Google images you get a ton of options.

Have yourself a harvest cake!













For the sportslover:












You can even eat your own face!













So I thought I might be able to find a cake shop in Paris, but got this instead -- and I refuse to wish you this kind of cake.













Without spending too much time procrastinating or digging for real French cakes, I found this "French wedding cake" which reminds me of our Norwegian Kranzkuchen:





Which even came with its own Norwegian couple in the Google images section:






Now, I know I'm poking fun. There are amazing bakeries in France and incredible chefs/bakers and the best designers in the world so I _know_ that there are good birthday cakes out there. I just don't have the time to look hard right now, and kind of want to joke around. So, don't take offense, but this came up under "birthday cake french" and looks like it really means "I don't wish you well on your birthday, instead, maybe you should consider choking to death."














So, in the end I guess I'll wish you with a galette des rois, which is still being sold in the boulangeries but I think it's like blue-light special now since the day of celebration was January 6th. The US Embassy explains and offers a recipe which basically boils down to eat a stick of butter with an egg on top. (Although this English-translated French recipe is the real truth of the baking.) At our gallete des rois school party, determined to be the 'queen' of the party, I got a huge slice and almost passed out from an overdose of sugar. No, honest. My eyes started kind of spinning and I got such a head rush. If I'd had a bat and piñata I would have gone to town. Instead, I tempered it with a bit of white wine, remained calm, got crowned and gave our director my fève (strange collection).




Or, please choose from any of these lovely traditional French pasteries like the élair (which means lightning, too).





Just please try to have a better time celebrating your birthdays than this woman, listed as "Yummy parisian cake"


um, yeah....







If I missed your birthday, I sincerely apologize. Please send me your date and I promise to toast you with equally as much sugar and love as I did the other folks.

Shorts

started 1/12/08

I found out that a 2nd year student did a similar paper on prostitution last year, comparing policies in France and Netherlands using the framework of the actors involved, mainly feminists. My ego was deflated to know this. I won't read her paper very closely until I'm done with mine. Too much pressure.

Speaking of, I heard from 2 different 2nd year students that I seem too stressed out. They tell me to focus on my introduction and conclusion and kind of support it in the main body. They act as if paper writing is second-nature when I haven't written anything formal in about 12 years. At the time they said this my eyes started to slightly well with tears (chalked up to PMS and conviction), and I defended the idea of writing a paper for the sake of making a difference instead of getting a decent grade or getting something out of the way. Regardless, I want to take their noticing my stress as a lesson. I should relax a bit my Scandinavian worth ethic. Life will go on and I won't actually be able to write some brilliant Einstein paper introducing a terribly new idea. At least not in the first four months of school.

The 2nd year student who wrote on prostitution described it well - it's a seductive theme. I have started to eat and breathe the concept. What is right, what is wrong, what works, what doesn't. In Madrid, Rod and I were walking up a street near Metro Sol, the street known for sex workers. It was our second or third time walking up this street because it's a thoroughfare. A man started to yell at a woman in a doorway (she was clearly a sex worker). His language was mixed Spanish and another. This is not representative of the industry, mind you. I stopped in my tracks and turned to stare at him. If he would become physically abusive I would not stand for it. Only, I should have done more. I should have challenged his verbal abuse. I speak almost perfect Spanish. I should have called him on it. As we all do in hindsight, I should have pulled the ultimate card out, "What?! Your mother taught you to treat ladies this way??!" Instead. He stopped yelling and walked away. So did we.

Back in Paris: I came out of the Chinese restaurant with my take-out. The same panhandler was there that I'd encountered before. Last time, when he stuck his hand out - the first time I've seen this guy/kid - he asked, mumbling in French, for money for food. I shook my head and kind of said 'désolé' sorry. Under his breath, as I walked on, he called me a "fucking bitch." I was shocked. In English he said this. I didn't know what to do so I walked on. This time, coming out of the restaurant, he was there, mumbling something about money for food and I shook my head and split second realized it was him and hollared back over my shoulder, "And don't call me a fucking bitch!" He mumbled back after me, "Ok, sorry."

I wore girl shoes to school today. I really don't like girly things like make-up (too much time in the morning for it when I could be sleeping), high heels (my high arches ache), etc. But I had a presentation and wanted to add a bit of professional flair which for men includes shaving and a nice shirt and tie. For women it's (shaving) a nice shirt and heels - either kitten or high. Every girl shoe I've ever worn has caused me blisters and pain. My Converse never have. My gym shoes never have. My Steve Madden boots haven't. So I wore girl shoes from 9am-midnight. They drain you if they hurt. They make every step feel sharp and slow you down from striding across the street. They made me come up from the metro, after 2 lines and a lot of standing and getting distractedly lost on the way, and upon seeing the hookers standing on the stairs at the top, I sighed, "Home. Finally." This is the first time I recognized my metro and my neighborhood as home. It felt good to see their un-stockinged legs and see the neon of Monoprix. I even, slowly tip-toeing almost down the street, nodded to the 'arabe' grocer. I guess I'm settling in here.

I made a HUGE bowl of pasta shells mixed with tuna, peas, mascarpone, eggs, celery, and spices. It was inspired by a meal I had at Rod's on Christmas Eve. I think I cooked for a good 1-1/2 hours. It was a good break and now I have like a week of food. Now, I have to think of creative ways to eat it. Sandwiches. I wonder what it'd be like warm. I haven't eaten so many eggs-by-themselves in years, but the French make only a handful of sandwiches in their boulangeries: meat and crudité (which means raw vegetable to mean lettuce, tomato), crudité and cheese (Camembert or Gruyère), or crudité with egg and thon (tuna). Not that I miss hot dogs or hamburgers (heh, says the vegetarian). I am definitely getting my vitamins and minerals. Also, hence, why I've been making PB&Js on lovely French bread to take to school - mix it up a bit (lovely jam here, too - recently had some rhubarb yummy chunks of fruit in there!).

Both the stats paper and state restructuring papers are due tomorrow. Stats so far is a 7-page regression analysis on how education, feelings about the status of a home country's economy, and your partner's education influence your feelings about immigration. It sounds sexy. It's not. A bunch of writing words about numbers. I've got about 35% left on the paper on prostitution policy. (Well, that percentage has dropped over the past 14 hours despite the fact that I haven't done much on it.) With all the words in the paper - some will be chopped for sure in the editing process - I've got almost twice the recommended amount. Whew. Plenty to say. Good. Now, let's make it worthy of being said!

I think it's sad that our extended family is dividing up my grandmother's art work. Sure, on the one hand it's really wonderful that we're able to do this and that my aunts and uncle and dad are helping the process and that my grandma is facilitating (or so I imagine, with no basis for that). It's still sad, and too bad that the farm house can't just be converted into a really cool museum that will always smell special like warm Norwegian wood and Welsh air. I can see that house from entry way to basement nook, from measuring our giggling cousins up against the bathroom door to seeing knee-high while scooting around on a wooden toy tractor. I wonder how it looks now, covered in layers of snow and small lights glowing from its windows. I wonder how we'll all keep the tradition of seeing our faces change.

Between 4 papers, a few notes

NUMERO UNO: HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERMANA MIA!!!! You look one day more beautiful! xoxo


1) Don't believe the hype. The world is not filled with terrorists out to get the USA. It *is* filled with people who dispise Bush and think Americans are stupid for re-electing him. But don't believe the Republican Presidential candidates when they say "be very afraid, cower, they're coming with the Atom bomb, you must hire me to protect you." And if the Dems start saying that, by god, call 'em on it.

2) I am growing a bit tired of defending or explaining my country of birth (notice: not country of growth or country of favorite countries or country where I chose to stay to do my grad work because damnit it's so great). I try in broken French to explain how I am fed up with Bush and how sorry I am for all the damage he's done to the world. I try to feel calm when a speaker/lecturer/person with whom I am speaking says several negative things in a row (almost all justified) about "America" when really they mean "Many of America's Administrations and A Lot of America's Bad Movies and Most of the Commercialism That You've Exported or Allowed Leave Your Country or Voted into Office." Also, we need to start remembering to dissociate America from The United States. My fellow Americans, from Canada to Mexico to Colombia to Chile to Argentina, don't like being associated with the America of Imposed Democracy of the US Flavor. And, *I* am not American or United Statesian in that fashion. I tell them (when it's appropriate - I'm not about to raise my hand during a workshop and say, "I'd like to clarify here that *I* in fact worked for 6 years to fight Bush's policies and didn't sleep for weeks in order to get my own state Wisconsin to vote blue." It would be tacky to turn the spotlight on me), yes, I do tell them that I did do those things and that I don't buy into buying big cars and big houses and more and more and more and more. I reduce, reuse, recycle - do you, Mr/Ms Frenchy? (Such a disapointment to see the paper mixed with the banana peels.) I tell them I don't think the Iraq or Afghan wars were justified and I supported legislators who said so, but it would be a fuckall if we ditched the countries without some kind of support structure (excuse the French). I try to tell them that I'd like to make the world a better place but usually I feel like that's a bit overstating my own powers - and seems very American - what's a better place? From whose perspective?

3) The restaurant on the corner is owned by an Indian. The shisha bars are owned by Moroccans. The new, single bed was delievered - and kindly put together - by Algerians. The boulangeries are run by French. A lot of the prostitutes and their pimps in the hotel next door are Russians. There are two massage parlors (with happy endings I think) across the street owned by Thais. My tailor and his assistant are Turk and Romanian respectively. Around the corner I've got super fried juicy Chinese food made by Chinese folks. Downstairs a few doors over, a Japanese restaurant. The woman who presses clothes in the laundromat is Colombian. Yes, I really am living and going to school in international, real world places. I don't know that I would have gotten quite this exposure in Chicago, Philly, or even London. Although, I might not get this kind of living community in other arrondissements either.

4) I am proscrastinating my papers.

5) Paris hit 32F today. It doesn't feel that cold to me though. Probably due to the lack of snow. I can see my breath outside and it's super grey cloudy. But NO SNOW! YAY!!!!

6) I got my packages in the mail today - 2 people in front of me in line only! Then again, I was at the poste at 1pm. Also, PP & Family - he said it'd take a week. Hm. Curious. I'd like to see how true this is.

7) I made a law! Or at least, that's what I want on my invisible gravestone. And a do-gooder law at that. Ok, ok, I didn't make it, and I certainly didn't make it alone and it isn't a law yet, but I did help make the "Compassionate Care for Rape Victims" bill and get it through the Wisconsin legislature in 6 years. I stayed up until 1am to catch the Assembly floor debate but they were in caucus that time. So, I asked my rockstar ex-colleagues to ping me on Skype when they went to the floor on our issue. Slept until about 5am when Andrea pinged me to wake up! wake up! wake up! Only they weren't on our issue yet. So I napped until 6am (I had already emailed my French prof that I wouldn't be in class). Woke up miraculously to the quiet call on Skype again. Got to hear the whole twisted, ugly, wonderful floor debate. Some legislators - even women - can be assholes toward rape survivors. It's shocking really. Thank goodness for the WI Eye though because now people can see them being so in real time - and later... for advertisements... or additional public viewing.... at crucial times... like maybe... election season. And again, I was in admiration of my ex-intern superstar, who during the 2nd month of her year+ long internship started speaking out about her own experience with sexual assault and the empowerment of being offered a decision about her own life through the question "Would you like to take a pregnancy preventative, Emergency Contraception?" More than I, SHE made the law.

8) We've had all the presentations on our dual-degree partners: London School of Economics, Colombia in NYC, Hertie in Berlin, Lee Kuan Yew in Singapore. While I feel like I should go to Hertie in Berlin for all the practical reasons (cost, cost, cost), I think I need to follow the goals and dreams and stay here. It's exciting when people ask me if I'm going home for the holidays and I say, "Nope, I'm here for two years!" I don't think people understand it really. Why don't I want to go home? Why don't my parents love me anymore? Why doesn't my sister miss me? How could I spend the holidays ALONE? How could I not want to go BACK to my country? - I see this flash quickly across their faces. And I follow my statement up, "I told them, if they want to see me, they have to come to Paris! .. So sad, isn't it? Forced to visit Paris." and then "It's really not unusual for my family. Being in the military, we travelled a lot and spent a lot of holidays outside of the States. Plus, I'll see them next spring. Yes, I've spent Christmas away from my family. Actually, that Christmas in Portugal was momentarily kind of hard. About 4 of us exchange students were travelling in Lisboa and it was pouring rain and we took turns huddling under the umbrella and making the long-distance call home. What really got me was hearing my whole, extended family at my grandparents' farm. That's what I missed. But it's a bit different now. I'll miss them, but I'm SO excited to be away from the US and be in a foreign language country. Also, I might go to Madrid for Xmas. And, I've got friends in Paris who have all graciously offered me to join them for any holidays I can. So, no, my family haven't stopped loving me. No, I don't really want to go home yet. Nope, I won't be alone - if anything I'm sure like any other country, the Chinese restaurants are open on the 25th... Although, this IS France where no one works on Sundays so who knows!"

9) Get food in french - check. Use public transport in french - check. Get different sizes of bras (insisting on using my foreign language) in french - check. Write an email in horrible french to my cool banker - check. Give a 5 min presentation on immigrants to France from 1800s-1914 in french - check. Go to the doctor in french and not die - check. Get appropriate medications and submit the receipts for reimbursement in french - check. Get wonderful wine weekly from the corner 'cave' in french - check. Order awesome cheese in french for faux thanksgiving dinner - check. Re-order minutes on my cellphone by listening to automated prompting operator chick in french - check. Explain my political "aslyum" in french - check. Know when to ignore 'em, when to hold 'em, when to walk away, when to run in french - check. Get a date in french - check. Turn someone down in french - check. Tried to slyly weasel the student rate at the Club Med gym to a guy who turned veiny and red-faced at the thought of *me* being 32 and trying to scam the *under 28* student rate, dude, I said, it's only a question, calme, I'm not trying to make you angry in french - check. Okay, I think I've officially passed culture shock and have moved into somewhat-self-sufficiency in a foreign language. Next step is, I'm sure, The Big Argument on the street or with some kind of administrative personnel. Or, maybe The Emergency - like a pipe bursts or something comes flying through the window. I know I can call my landlord, but sometime I'd like to see if I can hack it. This would be like, Level 9 of French As French Do.

10) There are some really cool things happening around the city right now and I hope I get to catch some of them sometime (aside from the cool thing like, getting my hair trimmed because it's growing so fast!). There's this new exhibit at the national library releasing France's huge collection of erotica. "France's official hoard of erotica and pornography, lovingly assembled by the Bibliothèque Nationale over a period of 170 years, will be thrown open to the startled eyes of the public for the first time this week." ... Then there's the Academie de Musique which I won't be able to catch for the holiday season but will try for spring 08.

But for now... I need to stop procrastinating.

Happy holidays, everyone!!

xoxo

I got fat in Berlin

Well, I put the pounds back on that Paris made me lose. We ate so well in Berlin!

But I have to run off to a group work meeting (during vacation no less! blasphemy!) and then I have to use this vacation / reading week to actually catch up on reading so the blog post will have to wait.

In the meantime, there are a ton of new Paris photos - trying to catch up with those before loading up the Berlin ones.

Here's the link to the sets. What's new?

La Fete des Vendanges de Montmartre
dinners (yes, mom, I'm eating)
#74 bus ride
Sciences Po events (INSEAD RESPONSE conference - highlight was seeing the President of Microsoft International, low point was realizing they all do the corporate social responsibility for the money)
Day in the 1eme and Marais
Nuit Blanche (added and grouped)
Montmartre 18eme
Marais - 3eme and 4eme (post-Soiree Blanche, walking around the day after)
Saint Germain / rue du Bac (I was focusing on capturing some fashion on the streets and coats I'm interested in)
Pigalle / Clichy (like maybe 4 photos here)
Paris Metro (starting a collection of metro pics I think)

Here are some for persual now:

Boob tube

I don't have a TV in my apartment although today I wish to hell I had one. EXhausted! Not that it's impossible, but you know it's sometimes hard to remind myself that I'm completely exhausted in Paris. Everything becomes relative and home is where you lay your head (even if the futon is a bit hard). So, after a point of tiredness, even cobblestones and amazing cityscapes and French language and grey skies and dog crap on the sidewalk and the 7:30am "bonjour" greeting to the bus driver can all become a wash. It's Mondays that are going to kick my butt. Not that it sounds that bad, in fact, it sounds like a day at the office.

Get up at 6:00am
Thank god that something automatically wakes me up - again, I accidentally set it to 6:00pm
Roll around for 10 minutes wondering how I can get myself up before sunrise and wondering when sunrise will meet me in the morning again.
Smart school girl has already checked the weather the night before and picked out her outfit.
Turn The Current on (Radio K is too sporadic sometimes, and I hate Pledge Drive weeks -- yes, yes, I've given before) - very low volume. The walls aren't all that thick.
Shower - which is fabulous.
Lotion - it's drier here than I thought it would be. My hair requires more conditioner than ever before and I'm constantly thirsty and need lotion a lot earlier in the year than usual.
Start up the Italian press - how bad is aluminum for my brain and Alzheimer's anyway? Is it even confirmed?
Dress.
Catch up on emails (timezone weirdness) and Facebook and news. I finally got my Euro Newsweek and October's Wired. Also, we get a subscription to Economist online. Niiiice.
My new French shoulder bag has these awesome side pockets that are deeper than my thermos so I pack a coffee thermos some days or just pack it with apple and tasty energy bars (at least I think they're energy bars, or maybe they're weight-watchers type bars).
Down the 100+ stairs, down the hallway, hit the "Porte" button to unlock the door, out. I can see planets and stars but people are awake. People are always awake in my neighborhood. Head west to the end of the block, cross over, north 1/2 a block and there's the bus stop for #68. Except, it hasn't been on time yet. And, no, it's not me, thank you.
I whisper "bonjour" with my headphones on. No one talks on mass transit and it's almost frowned upon to converse or - god forbid - laugh loudly. Plus, I've got some reading to do. The two women who get on after me both say "bonjour" loudly enough to the bus driver that I can hear them. Hmm it's really a very polite country. It's super duper impolite to enter a shop and not say "bonjour" or "bonsoir." And it's super impolite to not wish the other person a good day or good evening with "bon journee" or "bonne soirée." For some reason I just didn't think this extended to the bus driver so much - how terrible of me! ... so I whispered it today, tomorrow I'll shout it to the rooftops!
Roughly 22min down Rue Blanche, past l'Opera, through the Louvre plaza (Erin, I keep passing the metro stop just down from our hotel and think of you!), along the Seine, and then hook into Saint Germain, turn left onto rue du Bac and I get off.
Run up the stairs to the 3rd floor, buzz in.

French class. Means you have to actually think. And think in a different part of your brain. And remember things from 17 years ago. And distinguish between Spanish and French. At least I'm not the only brain-dead in the course. 8am-10am

Today I wanted to sit in on "Regulation, Adjudication and Dispute Settlement Beyond the State" with Professor (or his Eccellenza) Sabino Cassese. Not that I don't want to be in Daniel Vaughan-Whitehead's course, because of course I want to take them all! But maybe I feel like I know a bit more about "Policy-making in Transition: Tools and Strategies" than International Law.

So, I dropped Transitions for Law (Chris T and Andrea G would be so proud!).

Regulation 10am-1pm. Only, Mr. Cassese goes on and on until 1:15pm, leaving me barely enough time to gulp down my sandwich crudite-thon (salad and tuna sandwich) from the basement of the main Sciences Po building (2,40E and full of fattening things like mayo and eggs).

We all bust over across the street from our department to another building for the last class "State Restructuring and Policy Change: Government and Governance" with Patrick Le Galès. So far this class (required for all 1st year students) has been pretty good in explaining where we're at in the spectrum of public policy but today - as he warned - would be directed at those with little to no policy experience (yawn - been there, done that). 2pm-5pm.

Okay, so it's literally a full work day with a nice away-from-desk lunch break (during which I got to read this article on abortion rates in the Int'l Herald Tribune - actually from the NYT). Except that, well, I just haven't worked my brain this hard in a while. It was on a nice vacation in La Crosse and then an overwhelmed vacation in Paris. Essentially, right after class let out, I got back to Rue du Bac, got in line and caught the first #68 back up the hill to my apartment. And all I wanted was a TV with the Simpsons and maybe a bit of like Heros or Desperate Housewives or Grey's Anatomy. Instead, I reminded myself I needed to hit the Supermarche. This is still a bit overwhelming. Less so when I'm starved though.

Anyway. Yes, bitch moan. And, yes, I realize I'm exhausted and complaining IN Paris. An oh-so-sad place to be. But really, it does become relative and daily and needs are the same. Today I could use a big ol' upper back crack from Josh. Or maybe a stroll around the capitol with Nicole and Sara. A funny ha ha joke with Tanya. A high-five dance with Shelle. A big ol' hug from my parents... it was so nice of them, by the way, to wait over by the edge of the entrance as I made my way through the security line at O'Hare. It was a good 20 minutes I'm sure and at every bend in the line I could look over someone's head and see them peeking around the corner. Thank god for G-chat and Skype. Thank god for innovation!

Well, that's enough procrastination on reading this whole case by 12 hours from now. Whoops. Well... I do have to allow myself time to ease in to the whole study lifestyle. And, yes, even though I'm very tired, I'm totally thrilled and amazed. It's been a month and 4 days now and I feel like it's just going too darn fast already!!

Much love

oh and new photos added daily!

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.