Hostel Life in Paris

This last week, everyone in France was on holiday for All Saint’s Day which meant two things:

1. Paris was majority French-speaking for once; and
2. The strikes magically disappeared.

The strikes in the news of course had been exaggerated in the news.  Occasionally, I’d pass by a previously lit pile of trash, but otherwise things were back to normal.  I mentioned to a French hostel-mate that I’ll probably be 70 by the time I retire as things are going, so I’m taking a year of retirement while I’m young.  “What’s the retirement age in the U.S.?” she asked.  “Sixty?”  Oh the French are cute.

While there, I stayed in a hostel close to the Pere Lachaise cemetery.  Hostels are an amazing way of experiencing a city - you can meet travlers from all over and get suggestions on what to see or avoid.  They aren't for the weak of stomach, though, as they usually involve at least four beds and communal bathrooms and showers (still, nothing as bad as in the movie, from what I gather).

Taking a shower in this hostel in particular was an endeavor – although it was quite clever in forcing you to make it quick.  Once you push the “on” button, the shower only runs for 15 seconds at a time.  And while you can push the button indefinitely, the water gets little by little more scalding.

Noise is another issue.  My room was right next to the bathroom, so like it or not, I woke up to slamming doors and showers.  On top of that, my 50-something bunkmate snored like a steam train.  After two sleepless nights, I woke up to find her packing her bags.  “Are you leaving?” I asked.  “No,” she said, “I’m switching rooms, this one’s too loud.” 

But in the end, I was in Paris, my old stomping grounds, which involved a lot of catching up with some dearly-missed friends of the macaron variety.  I know I’ve talked about these too much and haven’t made enough to pass around to everyone yet, but they are just about the most delightful treats I know: crunchy meringue-based shell akin to cracking crème brulée with a soft, sweet ganache in the center.

Seeing as the Cordon Bleu wouldn’t let me into the day-long “Secrets of Macarons” course, even when I went in and tried to be as pathetic as possible (“but I came from the U.S. to take this course!”), I decided to make amends by eating as many as possible. 

Some people are into designer bags or clothes; I, on the other hand, am apparently into designer macarons.  By far, my favorite was the Ispahan macaron by the famous pastry chef Pierre Hermé: rose-water-flavored cookies about the size of my palm with a lychee cream filling and raspberries lining the edges.  Pure bliss…

The award for most original macarons goes to Fauchon, which I got after nearly 3 hours straight of bicycle-riding around the city (I had to burn off those carbs somehow): lemon-mint, raspberry-basil, and vanilla-rum (the other patisserie in the picture is a tiny éclair filled with caramel.. yum).  I think I ended up spending more money on pastries than actual food.

Luxembourg Gardens (yes, cliche)

One of the first things that struck me about Paris was how much it had changed from my vantage point.  Three years later, I still can’t help but love this city, but I’m no longer fascinated to the point of being absorbed by it – the culture, the clothes, and the foreign-ness of it all.  Apparently, it takes going back to somewhere from your past to realize that you’ve changed.

I never realized, too, how friendly people can be here – I was always too busy in the past trying to meet people instead of letting it happen.  Of course, there’s the usual curmudgeon (it seems like everyone comes away from Paris with at least one experience of an unpleasant conversation, but then I wonder what it would be like for a French person to come across a redneck in the States).  I decided to spend an afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens, reading and people-watching.  I talked with a number of passers-by, one of whom was curious about the cake (or, rather, the enormous macaron) I was taking pictures of.

Since my days started to revolve around my meals and snacks, I filled up the time in-between with picture-taking during my walks.  My dad mentioned a photographer who, to show how light and the time of day affects the quality of a picture, took a picture on the hour for 24 hours.  I decided to try this on a smaller scale at Notre Dame, taking pictures on the half-hour (I stuck them at the end since I already have too many pictures).

My last night in the city, after visiting in St. Sulpice and getting dinner in my old neighborhood, I walked over to the Eiffel Tower.  And what should have been obvious is that it makes for the ultimate in long-exposure shots in Paris.

On a different note... I read once about, after losing someone close, it’s common to have a “grocery store moment” – a moment in time where the loss of the person hits you (and usually not in the most convenient situation).  Maybe it's happened to one of you, too, for anyone you've lost.

I took a bus over to meet the mother of the family I will be staying with in Geneva, passing through the Champs-Elysées and around the Arc de Triomphe.  Just then it hit me, a memory so vivid that it threw me off-guard: waiting for a bus and chatting with my mom close to that intersection.  Sometimes it takes having a memory so real, even such a trivial one, of someone that it really sinks in how much you’ve lost.

So now I’m in Geneva, where I’ll be an au pair and volunteer in my spare time.  I've met the mom and her boyfriend and will be meeting the kids soon...  Oh and Happy Halloween everyone! :)  I almost forgot - it doesn't seem to be so common here.

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