kass's blog

misty paris

The semester is dwindling to its last legs now, and every conversation I've had in the last two weeks has been punctuated with someone saying "I can't believe it's ending so SOON!" and everyone falling into momentary depression. One of my friends has taken to yelling out at random points whenever it hits him that his days left here are in the single digits. Everyone is busy running around and cramming as much as possible in to one day in order to finish their to-do list.

Personally, it's a rather odd mix, because it’s the end… but not quite. I'm terribly sad that the semester is almost over because it's been the most fun I've ever had in college by far. Since the programme is so tiny – 150 people in total - NYU in Paris has all the closeness of a tiny liberal arts college. But by virtue of being in Paris, this semester not only gave us the chance to explore one of the most amazing cities in the world (I’m just a little bit biased), but a springboard to the rest of Europe too.

But it’s not quite the end of Paris for me either, because I’ll be returning in the fall. However, it’ll be with an entirely new group of people, which by all accounts, makes for a vastly different experience. I have a feeling it’ll be slightly odd to come back after spending four months at home. Things will seem so familiar, yet not. Moreover, most of next semester's students will never have been to Paris before. Things that will seem incredible to them will be things I've long since gotten used to, while everything new to me will be compounded with the question, “Why have I never seen this before?”

Whatever happens, I'm glad I'm coming back, because I'm not done with Paris yet. I’ll be able to do the things that I always intended to do this semester but never got around to, and rediscover my favourite places. After all, there're still a thousand museums to see, arrondissements to explore, cafés to discover and the rest of france to conquer.

singaporean flag

Home is a curious concept. What is home exactly? Is it the place where you hang your hat? Or maybe where your heart is? According to de Botton, at least, home seems to be the place where one is suffused with painful familiarity that mutates into ennui.

Singapore is a country that believes very firmly in progress and growth. Particularly since our past was nothing much to speak of, history is often relegated to the status of an afterthought or for the sake of tourism. Physically, the manifestation of this mindset shows itself in the incessant building going on the country, as buildings and houses barely ten years old are constantly being torn down to make way for newer, more modern ones. Subsequently, every time I go home for the holidays, I always feel slightly dislocated; in the midst of things that should seem so familiar, there’s always something to jar me into the realization that things have changed, and I wasn’t around to see it.

Yet even with the sense of alienation, I invariably feel bored and claustrophobic within a couple of weeks of having been in Singapore. Having bridged the gap between third world fishing village and first world economy in record time, Singapore is extremely focused on the financial frontier, at the great expense of everything else, particularly the arts. Furthermore, being barely more than wide, there is literally nowhere to go in Singapore nor anything to do. As such, less and less time is needed each time I’m back to make me feel an intense urge to leave the island and I’m afraid that one day I will feel absolutely no impetus to return to Singapore.

The end result of all of this is simply a sense that I don’t really belong anywhere in the world. For convenience’s sake, I still refer to Singapore as home, but the word is rapidly losing the heartwarming connotation it’s meant to have in abundance. How is it possible for a person to feel so bored in a place so unsettlingly foreign?

Truth be told, when I signed up for this class, I expected it to be the easiest class I would ever take. After all, I already had a blog and updated it  regularly, so how hard would it be to just write a few more entries? As it turned out? Very hard.

Most of my entries come into being when something really strikes me, whether in a good way or a bad way. Unfortunately, since external influences are by nature in unpredictable, my typical blogging habits are highly erratic: no entries for a long stretch, only to be followed by three in a day. Of course, that didn’t quite work for a class where an entry has to be produced once every five days.

More difficult yet was to write about specific topics that I had absolutely no inclination to write about, or at most, peripherially. I would sit staring at the assignment prompt for a good while, with my mind drawing a complete blank before giving up. Frustratingly enough to, some of the things that I’d already written about for an open topic suddenly fit into a fixed category later on in the semester, but since they had already been written, couldn’t possibly double count. What was I to write about now, having already written about it before? The class would have been a lot more enjoyable if there were less restrictions on what to write, but more feedback on what about our writing worked or not, and possible other areas to explore that we might not have considered before.

Having to write about events as opposed to thoughts helped me tremendously though, since my normal blog is disproportionately full of introspective musings that make no sense to anyone else but me. This class forced me to sit down and consider my audience more, what they’d want to read, what they’d be bored by, and whether or not they would even understand what I was trying to say. I have a feeling that this class therefore did more than just help hone travel blogging skills; it improved my general writing skills.

pont des arts

Because Paris is a city bisected by a huge river, there're a multitude of bridges here. Built by various kings over millennia, they span a vast range of styles, from the rough-hewn simplicity of to the ostentatiousness of Napoleon III’s Pont Alexandre III, and millions of cars trundle over them each day.

Of all these bridges though, only one is solely for pedestrians: the Pont des Arts. Located just to the left of Pont Neuf - the oldest bridge in Paris and an utter misnomer – the Pont des Arts was built between 1802 and 1804 under the orders of Napoléon I.

For the last couple of decades or so, the Pont des Arts has been claimed by the youths. When warm weather hits, flocks of young people gather at the bridge to drink wine and be merry. I’ve yet to go in the day, but at night, the bridge is absolutely packed with people picnicking on it, and in the brief time that spring has come to Paris, it’s become one of our favourite spots to spend evenings.

Better yet, we can do it with an utterly clear consciousness of not being touristy because the truly amazing thing about the Pont des Arts is that the people claiming it are French, not tourists. The chatter that one hears on the Pont des Arts is predominantly French, with only he occasional speckle of American students who’ve tapped into this badly-kept secret, and the only tourists I’ve seen (aside from ourselves) are bike tourists using the bridge to cross the Seine.

In New York, the Pont des Arts’ equivalent would be a painfully touristy place where locals would never deign to go and throngs of souvenir shops would smother it. In Paris, however, the Pont des Arts is one of the coolest places to be, even for the bongo-playing Parisian hipsters that were sitting right next to us. It’s only in Paris that one can sit on a bridge and feel the wind blowing across the river, imbibe wine and cheese and watch the sun set over the grand structures of Paris, all without a shred of irony.

paris

Be forewarned, Paris is an expensive city, particularly in the current economic climate when the dollar is so weak.

Lodgement: For those who don't know, Paris is divided into twenty section, which are called an arrondissement, and they spiral outwards, with the first right in the centre and the twentieth lining the péripherie. The general consensus is that the closer one is to the centre, the more desirable the property. However, there are exceptions to the rule: the eleventh is extremely up and coming, particularly around Rue Oberkampf and the Bastille area. The sixth arrondissement is also a favourite with students, since the Sorbonne is situated there.

Pour manger: Like most other European cities, the best places to eat are often found by accident or word of mouth... and there's no yelp.com to consult. One of these such places is Chez Gladines a tiny Basque restaurant set in the 13th arrondissement. It's very popular and they don't take reservations, so if you ever do go, be prepared to wait for at least an hour. Another is the Relais de Bretagne on Ave Victor Hugo in Boulogne, which has the best couscous in Paris for cheap. And there's of course the Rue Roisier in the Marais, which is dotted with shops selling the best falafel I've ever tasted.

En boites: Personally, I'm not that big a fan of clubs in Paris, which often have the reputation of being terribly snobby. However, the most popular ones are Le Cab (of the aforementioned variety) and Mix, which often has Erasmus parties, which means international students get free entry before midnight. Another alternative is Barrio Latino, which is technically a salsa club, but doesn't necessarily mean that people are always dancing salsa. Being five stories high, it also incorporates a restaurant and a bar.

Which brings me to my next alternatives: bars. Because universities here are state-run, they're often built with only the bare minimum and often lack the common areas for hanging out that are so crucial to American collegiate life. Instead, especially because of the lower drinking age, most students hang out in bars. Of the thousands that populate the city, the most popular ones among NYU students are Chez George (very cool and chill), Popin (cute and dinky), Hideout (two locations, both with absurdly cheap beer).

doisneau's kiss

Note: I know this is in no way an accurate portrayal of all French guys, and it's not very fair to them. Still, this all is true in reference to me.

People keep asking me why I'm not going out with anybody since I'm in Paris! of all places. Here's why: for one, I hardly know any of the French. The professors are still on strike (and may be so for the next three years. THREE years, until the next election and Sarko gets kicked out) so I can't take any classes at the French universities, which drastically reduces my chances of getting to know ANY French people. Then we're suppose to have language partners, but the coordinator got the email of mine wrong, so I don't have one. None of my american friends really have French friends either. Other than that, the best chance of meeting people is in a club. The problem with clubs here though, is that they're either really sketchy, or they're really elitist, meaning they don't let you in unless you're a model or a multimillionaire. I don't like the former, and I'm not the latter. Also, clubbing about once a month is more than enough for me, I don't like dancing with guys (because guys are skeevy) and besides, do I actually want to to out with a guy who hits on random girls in a club?

Then there's the French system of dating, which follows as such: boy meets girl (whether either is attached is often immaterial), boy asks for girl's number, asks her out within a day, they hook up on first date, see each other everyday for the next couple of weeks an then break up. Of course, this doesn't hold true for ALL relationships (or the French would've died out centuries ago) but that's the way people whom I know who date do it. Being in a normal relationship already drives me crazy, I think doing that would reduce me to a blubbering pile of digested ice cream.

And finally, French guys themselves. I've given my contact to a couple of guys then promptly ignored them, because not actually being able to recognize the person you're supposedly going on a date with is a little awkward. And anyway, in order to date someone, one has to like a person first (for me, at least). I've yet to find someone I can actually muster up even the vaguest interest about. Aaaand here's why. The following is an online conversation with a guy I met a couple of weeks ago, who asked me for directions to the metro. (There's another amusing story there, but I'll save it.) Yes, I gave him my email (thank god not anything else) and he was a lot less creepy in real life than he comes across online. Still, after this I blocked him.

Julien: have you got a boyfriend?

.kass. : nope

Julien : haaa

Julien : ok

Julien : why?

.kass. : huh?

.kass. : why what?

Julien : why are you alone?

Julien : single?

Julien : you are very nice and pretty

.kass. : er

.kass. : i have no idea how to answer that

Julien : lol

Julien : ok

Julien : meet me

Julien : ok?

[insert pause here where I didn't respond]

Julien : how is singapour?

Julien : can you just one hour tomorow?

.kass. : i really can't, sorry

.kass. : my project is group work, which means that my time issn't my own

Julien : yes but after your project

Julien : if you agree, i promise you a kiss tomorow lol

Julien : so?

Julien : so??

.kass. : i'm sorry, i really really can't

Julien : okJulien : even if i promise you a kiss??

.kass. : er

.kass. : no offense, but i don't really want one

Julien : lol

Julien : i don't want to kiss you but it is a blackmail

Julien : blackmail = chantage?

.kass. : chantage?

Julien : oui

Julien : tu connais en francais? le chantage?

Julien : it is not important

.kass. : non, desolée

Julien : i don"t want to kiss youJulien : just to speak with you about singapour

.kass. : again, still no time

.kass. : sorry

Julien : ok no problem

Julien : but don't think i want to kiss you please because i have a wife

Julien : (girlfriend)

la tour eiffel

Until last weekend, I could proudly say that I had spent over two months in Paris and hadn’t even gone near the Eiffel Tower. In my search for the authenticity of the last entry, I’ve avoided the touristiest of tourist sites. And because Parisians don’t actually go on the Tower in the same way that New Yorkers don’t actually go up the Empire State Building, I felt obliged to emulate their disdain of it in my attempt to become Parisian.

However, the perfect excuse to be touristy arrived last weekend in the shape of a visiting friend. En route from Singapore to The Hague for a conference, she decided to stop over in Paris for the weekend. With her around, I could visit tourist traps with a clear conscience; I was not a tourist, I was a seasoned local guiding a tourist around. However, coming from a slightly less fortunate financial background, her traveling style is vastly different from mine. While I travel on my own time and schedule, she is an emissary of a host of family members who will never get to see Paris. The objective of her trip was therefore was less about getting a Parisian experience as much as fulfilling the expectations of all back home. Ergo, lots of touristy things.

Tip for anybody under the age of 26 who’s interested in visiting Paris: entrance to the Louvre is free on Fridays from 6 – 10pm. Also, there’re two entrances to the Louvre: one is the main one near the glass pyramids, where the line is always long and snaky at that point; the other is underground, near the apex of the inverse pyramid, which hardly anyone knows about so the queue is always much shorter. To get to the second entrance, head away from the main entrance towards the Tuileries and look in the clump of bushes for the staircase leading to the basement level. (I feel like I’m in the DaVinci Code giving secret directions). Alternatively, get off at the metro stop Musee du Louvre on the 1 line and the station connects directly to the underground area.

Because she arrived on Friday afternoon, we started off with the Louvre. My friend, however, is not particularly fond of art. In response to “Why even go to the Louvre at all?” she replied, “To take photos.” So we took photos. After two hours, she deemed her photos sufficient and she, in need of dinner. Another tip for future Parisian tourists: don’t eat around touristy areas – they’re invariably tasteless and overpriced.

Once sated, we headed over to the Eiffel Tower, where the last lift goes up at 11pm. With regards to the view, the general opinion is that the Eiffel Tower is prettier from far away than when one is on it. Quite true. Nonetheless, it’s a rather pretty sight to see the cityscape of the City of Lights at night. (By the way, that’s why it’s called the City of Lights. Indoor lighting in Paris is actually rather dingy because they seemed to have spent all their electricity lighting the exteriors instead).

Over the course of the next two days, we also visited Sacre Coeur and Montmarte, the legendary flea markets at the Porte de Cligancourt, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame and the Pere Lachaise cemetery. As is wont with tourist sites, most of them look better on postcards than when visited in person. Therefore, last tip for the aspiring visitors here: if you really must go to tourist sites, go. But leave plenty of time to do other things like getting lost wandering side streets, sitting in a café and people-watching, visiting little art galleries and acting snooty in a bar discussing existentialism. That is truly the Parisian experience.

sunday bastille market

Honestly speaking, the greatest kick I get out of a holiday is grocery shopping. In a supermarket, a farmer's market or whatever equivalent market the world has, I gets to rub shoulders with locals and do as they do. In that window of time that one spends in the market, the traveller gets to play make believe and assume the guise of local (provided said traveller isn't toting an enormous backpack and clumping around in hiking boots). MacCannell would call a grocery store a stage 4 space, a "back region that is open to outsiders".

I find the grocery store is also the closest one gets to a peephole into a culture. You are what you eat, and the way to the heart of a culture lies in discovering its most basic of things: food. In Turkey, I discovered that Lay's produces yoghurt and herb chips rather than sour cream and onion, but no bacon or ham-flavoured ones, showing both the Islamic history and gastronomic inclinations of the Turks. In France, every single store selling food, no matter how big or small, has a section devoted to wine. Sometimes, wine is cheaper than water, and no one ever asks for ID, a result of the utterly comfortable attitude that the French have to wine, something that’s quite alien to American culture. A grocery store is therefore the manifestation of the social, cultural, religious and economic position of a country and culture all rolled into a few rows and checkout points.

Of course, not everyone is as thrilled as I am at the prospect of grocery shopping. College students, I find in particular, generally belong to the other camp, those that MacCannell refers to as “tourists” with great disdain. For spring break, I had carefully planned out a whole week in Morocco, spent in Marrakech, Fez and the desert (and grocery shopping, of course). However, in the course of planning, I found that the majority of my friends prefer to flit about like butterflies in a typhoon. Consequently, we're now traversing Venice, Sardinia and Barcelona in the span of a week. Indubitably, it will be great fun - traveling with friends generally is – but somehow I feel MacCannell would not approve.

kitchenetteTips for people studying/planning to study abroad: hardboiled eggs are one of the easiest things to cook. All one requires is a pot of hot water, no crockery or cutlery required, and no oil to wash out. However, as I've only recently discovered, it's apparently "very Asian" and the rest of the world doesn't seem to like it that much. Therefore, when I brought a dozen of them to a potluck at a friend's house, only two were eaten, both by me. Now I have ten hardboiled eggs sitting patiently in my kitchen.

According to the Institute of Molecular Gastronomy, the perfect egg is the 65-degree egg (149F, for Americans). If you’re interested in creating one of your own, you can follow the instructions in this article. However, as much as I would like to, it is absolutely unattainable here sans thermometer. Parisian kitchens tend to be miniscule, with electric heating plates and no ovens. In my tiny little kitchenette, the pan is bigger than the heating plate that takes forever to heat up, and the handle of the pan perpetually hits the corners whenever I try to turn it. As a result, all omelettes cooked on my stove end up half burnt on one side and uncooked on the other. Which is why I stick to boiled eggs.

Sitting here peeling eggs reminded me of being a kid. My extended family used to have a dinner every two months or so to celebrate whoever's birthday was in that time. In accordance with Chinese custom, there'd be a basket of red hardboiled eggs for us to take home. (Red signifies good luck) I didn’t actually really like hardboiled egg - I always found the white tasteless - but I was bored and they were fun to peel. When we got to the car, I'd have a half-peeled egg, red-stained fingers from the paint on the eggshell, and a mother yelling at me for dropping eggshell in the car.

I feel very Proustian.

chez justine

It's just about to turn 9, and I'm writing this sitting in a cafe two minutes away from my apartment. Said café is called Chez Justine and it, and me, are on Rue Oberkampf, the West Village equivalent of New York. As with virtually all cafés in Paris, it's more a portmanteau of a bar and a restaurant and no, they don't card people here. It's dark in a cozy way: there're candles, everything's wood, and charcoal iron-wrought lamps droop from the ceiling. Like the place, everyone's rather laid back and the low hum of murmuring is a soothing counterpoint to the slow jazz that's playing. I feel so very French right now.

I'm actually here for dinner and the timing is rather normal; the French eat late. Ever since I've been here, I've made it a point to go out once a week to a café and try a French dish I've never had before. So far, I've had tart tartin (an upside down apple pie), confit du canard, magret du canard, and some Seychellois cuisine, some of which involved dried blood that we only found out about later. Tonight I'm having the parmentier du canard for dinner with a glass of white wine. Canard is duck, but I've never heard of a parmentier before, except for the metro stop. We'll see.