At the Louvre (I snuck in through the secret VIP entrance again!), I spontaneously decided that it was time to visit the Medieval Moroccan art. This was, as anything at the esteemed Louvre ought to be, a marvelous exhibit. I learned a lot (including the French word for Minbar: minbar), from the Almoravids to the Almohads to the Marinid and Idrisid dynasties (and their corresponding names in French!). There were beautiful manuscripts, incredible carvings, and some of the most impressive silk-work I have ever seen. If you have are in Paris, have a free hour or so, and can get into the Louvre for free at 9am when it's pretty empty, I suggest you go. I understand not many people fit this description!
I walked back to ISEP, stopping at FNAC for another notebook. When I went to pay with my card at the auto-kiosk, the machine wanted me to sign it and started blinking for assistance. An employee approached me, and before I could say a word, he started speaking english to me! I was outraged, of course, and replied to him in French. Did I look especially American today? Did I forget to take off the piece of tape on my forehead saying, "Hi, I'm not Parisian"? When, still infuriated twenty minutes later, I asked the professor why he would do such a thing, she told me that, since it is very rare for a French person to have red hair, most people assume redheads are English or American. Well, humph. What an injustice! I suppose I will have to die my hair green.
View from the window of our ISEP study room. This makes me like graffiti
After the French class that I'm not taking (I showed up for the first class, but changed my mind), we went out to lunch at my dear boulangerie, Coeur du Blé. Sorry, I forgot to take a food picture. I was ravenous! Next time.
Now, at this point of the story I merit some praise: I made it, on time, without getting lost, to the other ISEP campus in Issy. After Friday's debacle, this is evidence of extreme improvement (that is, after having failed disastrously, performing a minimally-demanding task that any functioning human could perform equally well becomes a ballad-worthy feat). For an hour I visited the two professors sequentially, fell in love with ALL of the five available projects, and then slunk off knowing I would have to pick just one. The kind and helpful security guard was present when I left, and we had a nice conversation. There is, in fact, such thing as a friendly Parisian. Of course, he probably lives in the suburb of Issy, but that's a minor point.
I was planning to meet up with the others back at ISEP but I was running late, so I thought maybe I would catch up with them wherever they chose to go. However, my good fortune was in a sunnier mood than the Paris weather du jour, and, as my train screeched to a halt at our Métro station, my friends were standing right outside the door of my very car! The serendipity was particularly prominent because, immersed in my book, it is quite possible I would have forgotten to disembark had my attention not been grasped by the presence of familiar faces.
We went to Canal St-Martin, a lovely Parisian treasure in the middle of goodness-knows-where, commonly known as home to the bobo. What is the "bobo", you ask? Short for "bourgeois-bohème", it is similar to un hipster, a Parisian subculture of youth with significant means who dress as if they were lacking. Think Urban Outfitters. Think buying $100 ripped jeans so they can be ripped jeans with a brand name and a perfect fit. Or, at least, that's what I was told to think. Those of you who know me, probably assume (correctly) that I have very little idea what I'm talking about. No matter, we were on a quest to find the bobos of Paris, and we knew where to go.
The canal is quite lovely. Sort of. If you look at it from the right angle. With your eyes closed.
It actually would be rather gorgeous, if not for the layers of graffiti and the generally shabby appearance. Decrepit but beautiful. Très bobo, n'est-ce pas?
There are locks as well, and ramps. Quality infrastructure?
On our wanderings, we met a student named Cyril. He studies mechanical engineering in a banliue and had spare time today which he used to come have an adventure in Paris. He had never been to the Canal St-Martin area, and asked us if it was nicer further down (it really wasn't that nice, you see). We didn't know, but we struck up a conversation, and invited him to explore with us. We found a bookstore that sold art and design books. It had a name, but I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it was.
Inside the bookstore. They had a kitchen section. With knives. Why not?
Unfortunately, this is dark. The title is "Street Food Bio", translated as "Organic Street Food". This is the epitome of Bobo.
As you may or may not observe from the photos, this store was the bobo ideal. That is, it sold very expensive things that looked old and beat up, had a strong counterculture vibe, and sold a book called "Organic Street Food". We couldn't afford anything.
When we tired of our failed attempts to observe bobos in their natural habitat, we wandered the streets looking for a café. Given that this was Paris, it was quite a feasible task. The one we found had a strange name, weird booths, and cheap drinks. My café (espresso), was very nice, especially the contact of the steaming cup on my frigid fingers. It didn't take long to get feeling back! Did I mention that it's the coldest week of the year?
When we had finished our drinks, figured out the cheque, and somehow extracted ourselves from the warm interior of the café, we had to go our separate ways, drawn by family dinners or suggested readings for courses. Again, I fail with a food photo, but whatever it was we ate tonight was fantastic. After starting with sliced sausage (something fancy, a thin-cut) and cornichons (with baguette), we moved on to some type of meat stuffed with other meat (I should ask what it was) with a side of carrots and another vegetable that I only know in french (with baguette), and then moved on to three different types of cheese (with baguette). For dessert, my père d'acceuil had made quite a nice little gâteau, with pieces of candied fruit, not at all over-sweetened. I'm telling you, this country's food is spoiling me rotten! Watch out, Arillaga Dining.
EDIT: I ate the same thing the first night, so as for the food pictures, we are set:
The gâteau. Tonight's was a bit different, darker.
The plat principal except without potatoes tonight.
Please look into "Bobos in Paradise" written several years ago by David Brooks. I believe that Bobo is actually an American phenomenon that was transposed to Paris. They are fairly easy to spot on the north side of Chicago, or in much of San Francisco; I'm not certain that one need to go to Paris to go on a Bobo safari!
ReplyDeletePlease tell me that you did NOT purchase one of the knives in the Bobo-store.
Every time I read your blog, I get hungry and gain weight. By the end of the quarter, I think that I will be diabetic and obese, alas.