Emerson, they got you too?

So this is all a grand experiment. There are many working parts to it, but the main hypothesis is that I can cut out an existence for myself in a foreign country that is not only livable but possibly fantastic - in other words, that I and (by slippery slope logic) most of humanity, can live just about anywhere and be happy.

So far, the hypothesis is true. Let's work backwards.

Last night was the penultimate night of Fresher's week - fresher's week is (as one can probably infer) the week where there are many mixers and icebreakers designed at getting the student population to know each other better. The official drink at this sort of event is red bull and vodka, and the official music usually consists of the usual hip hop and r&b, but everyone dances and sings along to Mr. Brightside by the Killers, Banquet by Bloc Party and I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor by the Arctic Monkeys.

I don't know why everyone drinks red bull and voda. Mixing caffeine with alcohol is bad for your heart.

Last night they added to the mix of dancing plus alcohol a bizarre trio of beatboxers that could get the crowd dancing but didn't seem to care to keep them dancing for longer than 30 seconds. Also included were Fairground rides and a hypnotist that I didn't watch. Patrick and I went with my flatmate Grace and her boyfriend, and an OC obsessed girl who goes by the name created by her initials, Cem.

Patrick was my roommate while I roomed in London, by the way. He is hilariously awkward and is enjoying this experience in a similar fashion that I am - big wide eyes and excitement at even the smallest things: "Is that a british library? Let's become members!"

It was the last in a long series of going out and dancing with people I only mildly know, and it was excellent. I think what really strikes me at all of these things is how I end up tirelessly yelling a conversation with someone that I have just met midway between the dancefloor or bar. It proves to me perhaps what I already knew: I love talking, and the people make a place.




The day that preceded night was a birthday celebration seaside trip to Great Yarmouth for Jonny. Fifteen of us went down and had fish and chips at the seaside and wasted a pound or two at the two pence machines - awful gambling games that you literally feed money into in hopes that it will push more money out. I got a keychain. We ate ice cream and made a sandcastle version of our halls of residence.

The night before, the flat two floors above us made curry and invited anyone who answered their door to come up and talk with one another. Abbey, who lives up there, is a kindred spirit. She likes Pushing Daisies and even though she lives in England, seems significantly impressed and excited by everything she comes across. These are the type of people I really strive to keep around, in case my interest lags for some unknown reason.

Okay.

Now a word on classes.

I had my three classes - one of which is in the museum donated to our school by Sainsbury's, which is a chain of supermarkets. Both creative writing classes - drama and prose - are a step backward for me. They are more like the intro and intermediate versions, respectively, that I took back at UCSC... therefore, their use is going to be the same use as everything else occuring here: meet more people! Talk to them! I am expected to turn in at the end of the semester a 2500 word story and a 20 minute play. These are things I can do.

My playwriting class is loads more witty than the one back at UCSC though. Our first assignment is to write a 3 page scene from a reimagining of Goldilocks and the 3 Bears. I hope we get to read them aloud... british accents saying the words I wrote is going to make me smile.

Onward:

Zane Lowe is a dj that is treated like a god, and I saw him and danced with strangers to him. I went to an ISS mixer where I met people from 22 different countries, but ended up talking to a girl upstairs from Brussels for most of the evening. She told me she felt she was betraying her country because she didn't like beer. Every other conversation was the standard five questions - what's your name, where are you from, where are you living now, what are you studying, and then one free for all, usually "what's that you're drinking?"

The days here are filled with all sorts of things - Joseph and I play music for one another and eat sausages and "brown sauce" that we bought at the Tesco's up the way. I talk to Hannah from canada who is in my creative writing class about the relationship of poetry and fiction and why when they are melded, like in Jonathan Safran Foer, it is quite stunning. I have purchased a bike for myself which I am scared to ride because of my unfamiliarity with roundabouts, but I am still alive. We eat bacon rolls and pasta, we read our required reading. I am still exploring Norwich and meeting people - the phone that I bought here is filling with numbers of people that I am texting randomly to meet for a shared candy bar or a walk around the lake.



Societies I joined:
Smoothie society
Cocktail society
Creative Writing society
Archery Society
Rowing society
Ballroom dancing society

I need to not put such a long time between blog posts - things are happening every day that I can't even begin to articulate. I feel very close to my flatmates. They are lovely, interesting people who seem to like me back. I love going out at night with all of these fresh and different people and talking to them about... well... anything. Universality. Obama. French pop music. Guy Ritchie films. Facial hair. Cough syrup.

The hypothesis, revised from above, is that I can live anywhere and be happy. Seems to be true. I am quite happy. I miss the U.S.A. and walks with Anthony and time with Erin and coffee with Audrey and bothering Max and sometimes I even miss selling shoes. But my goodness I love England.

A Quick Word on Pictures...

I will be putting pictures on here soon, promise.

I promise!

The only reason I haven't already is that I have taken over 200 of them and I have not been on my computer long enough to sort through them and everything, and once I have, I won't have a backlog of 200 pictures any longer, so picture posts will be more frequent.

But this is already the longest I have spent at a computer in ages, and when I sit down to it, I keep getting interrupted to do something like go to an indie club nicknamed "Mustard" and dance to Noah and the Whale and The Ting Tings (listen to Five Years Time and Great DJ). Or drink a cup of tea.

The British don't make jell-o from powder, but highly concentrated jell-o cubes melted and then reconstituted.

Question time:
-the sheet is from Primark, the British version of Target, I suppose.
-I am taking drama writing (stage and radio version), prose fiction, and museums and exhibitions (the final project is our own art exhibition at the university art museum which was donated by the food market Sainsbury's!)

I have a story I am going to write. I think I will wait for Friday to really start on it though...

I think 3, large.

So I finally have internet after many empty promises from the UEA ITS.

So... my god, what has happened? I should scurry to my journal but I am going to be a bit vauge instead, I suppose.

Last night a bewildering Kaiser Chiefs cover band played a set at the LCR (lower common room). I went with almost all my housemates, who are:

Joseph: from Brighton, into indie rock, blues guitar, and literature
Alice: from New Zealand, into baking, world music, travel, and developing countries
Grace: from Portsmouth, very bubbly, quite excited, and into being a doctor

Alex didn't come with, but he is from Slovenia/Serbia, into movies, and often gets lost.

I feel like a freshman all over again, participating in all of the freshman things, like the icebreaker last night, and the internation students reception (where I was in a conversation with people from 15 different countries at one point!), and rubbing my hands together in anticipation for the societies market, where you literally shop for the societies you would like to join. So far I am going to join the Internation Students Society, the Creative Writing Society, the Archery society, the Rowing society, the Travel society, and the Wine and Cheese society.

I only have class on Thursday and Friday and have decided to make a foray into London next week to see a show and so forth. It is only 8 pounds return to get there and there is a student price for about 15 pounds to see anything good, like Jersey Boys, Spamalot, or... something else. There is a stage version of Rainman with Josh Hartnett that looks interesting.

Norwich is best described as a british town if Disney designed it - the street layout has not changed since medieval times, and the streets themselves are cobbled and narrow, only big enough for a single car. The open air market in the very center of town has been operating since 1066 and it is hemmed in by a magnificent castle that doubles as an art museum and a very imposing church.

My room is prison-like. The Resident Tutor described it as Shawshank Chic. I put a king size sheet up on one wall to help lessen the oppressiveness, but the bed is quite small... I woke up twice last night banging my foot on the end bar, startled by the cold and the metal.

So I won't spend much time in my room. But I wasn't going to anyway. I'm eating a cadbury chocolate waiting on a pizza we all ordered, and Joseph is asking if I'd like a tea. And I would, really would.

With alacrity, I sink.

I remain incredibly moved by timely handclaps.

Two nights ago it was brought on by a synthesized voice asking to put up your hands and clap, while strobes and spinning beams of light pushed us closer together. As I clapped and danced next to other EAP chums I wondered if my heart was beating fast and hard or if the bass was just that strong.

Last night handclaps were asked for (and received, albeit a bit off beat and drunken) by a British cover band while they sped up versions of Video Killed the Radio Star and Yellow, sung in a gruff voice probably fueled by too much Guiness and, of course, cigarettes.

And just a few hours ago it was in complete joyous unison at the Globe Theater, as the characters of The Merry Wives of Windsor took their bow and sang about being merry. Shakespeare was meant to be performed. I contest reading his words in books. But, honestly... Falstaff got what he deserved.

The energy in this group of EAP kids is electric and a little bit off kilter - a group of 20 somethings right on the precipice of a few months away from what they know. We cling to each other in pubs, follow one another down wrong pathways just because it is difficult to be a leader. A lot of laughter, though. A lot.

I did, however, manage to see Kensington gardens at leisure with an excellent group, posing ridiculous for a photo scavenger hunt in front of a robo-t-rex, a Princess Diana memorial fountain, and other various/sundry bits of interest. And I faux psycho-analyzed an entire table of us at the Naked Chef's british retaurant while eating delicious polenta atop mushrooms and ragu.

I want to storytell like the beefeaters at the London Tower. I want to have the comic timing of Messr. Ford in Merry Wives. But most of all I want to settle in tomorrow and see what lies in store at the hallowed halls of UEA.

confession:

I wasn't sure I was going to tell you all this, but why not?


I pretended that I was on the Hogwart's Express the whole time I was on the train.

It was supposed to be so easy...

Things I learned in Paris:
-a city can be seductive
-macarons are delicious
-the french language is more complex than I could have imagined
-I acclimate well

I am typing like an idiot. Why oh why did I get used to french keyboards?

Things I learned today:
-travel light
-seriously, seriously. travel light.

I just took my eighty pounds or so of luggage up roughly 4523 flights of stairs. I am on the topmost floor of a building with no elevator. I have not sweated that much since running the mile in eighth grade.

But, I did have a latte with a nice korean woman. And I read a Douglas Coupland book on the train while the woman next to me read seventy pages of her children's novel. Is it wrong to feel superior because of reading speed?

I am so comfortable in my own language, like sinking into an easy chair. I keep talking to people just to show myself I still can, without stumbling. But I keep apologizing in french.

Sortie.

As we drove down a french freeway in Yanne's convertible, Ariane turned and said, "See? That was kind of like time travel."

She referred to our afternoon in the gardens of Versailles. String music played out of hidden speakers, allowing someone with a royally inclined imagination to pretend their was a string quartet following him around, continually playing his favorite song (the music was on repeat). I even drank my Orangina like a king - through a straw. Only peasants drink straight from the can. Right as we were about to leave, the fountains turned on, forcing me to make a royal decree: all fountains should have water out of jets, not statue's mouths. Water jets out of a statue's mouth is not pleasant.

Then another Orangina, again like a king, near a modern art museum with Caroline (who should be reading this now. Hi Caroline!)

Ariane and I traversed the streets of Paris one last time before dinner with Paul, Jean, Ariane, and Yanne. I had scallops, then créme bruleé. And everyone sipped nice wine and either talked in english about Paris, music, the weather in England, and literature, or in french about war and... banking? Resolution, and I know that I have probably typed this before: I will return to Paris, french vastly improved.

And now I am repacked and showered, with an address for the english cab driver and pounds in my pocket instead of euros. London Orientation awaits.

I want to be your bootlegger, want to mix you up something strange.

So... where was I?

Paris is tragically romantic. Tonight I counted six couples kissing, three couples fighting, and one guy sitting on the floor of the phone booth, yelling what I can only assume were french swear words. Girls wrap themselves in their boyfriends on the metro, couples share cigarettes outside of cafés, guys write in moleskine notebooks in three languages about love found and lost.

All of this (poetically) in view of the Eiffel Tower, the most common structure used to indicate love.

The tragedy does not come from love lost and found though, or the constant reminder that if you are not in love in Paris, you should be, or if you are in love, perhaps you can be more in love... the tragedy, to me, comes from the poor souls who have forgotten how loveable, eccentric and beautiful this place is.

For example, two nights ago, Ariane and her friend Guillaume and I drank a pint in a bar called "Some Girls" without a girl in sight... instead there were two Christmas Story burlesque lamps and leopard print cushions. Or a couple days ago when I saw a dog alone in a meat shop, looking with lust at his surroundings.

Herman Dune loved it here too. They played a sweet little show in a sweaty music hall at a trendy radio showcase. After every song, David (the singer) would say "Merci beaucoup" and smile for a moment.

Today, I ate lots of cheese on bread and avocado, had Sushi with Yanne, Jean and Ariane, ate a little macaron from Pierre Hermé (a macaron is not a macaroon. remember this and your life will get better, especially if you get the chance to have one.) and asked symbolic questions to the friends of Ariane.

And we saw Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band who played with vim and vigor and strummed with passion. I love his lyrics and I love good harmony and I love when a singer shakes with the power of what they are saying, which Conor does. I was also glad he got a haircut.

I think I have had a bit of alcohol every day since I have gotten here. A beer at least. I don't think this is a bad thing, either... but I certainly won't continue this practice. Paris is a vacation. Norwich will have more direction.

My head is clear currently. Ariane's neighbors have their television loud and Ariane is about to go to sleep. I have a story I would like to write and blank postcards to fill. And cheese to eat. And life to love.

My goodness, do I have myself a life to love.

Get out of Cape Cod.

Good modern art is tragic.

Bad modern art is at worst boring and at best a little funny.

But after you see Braque, Chagall and Picasso, you kind of wonder if there are really any new ways to see the world. Because art seems to have been trying to catch up to them ever since.

Anyway, thanks Beaubourg! You certainly are a weird building with weird things inside!

After Beaubourg there was ice cream. Gelato, really. Nutella flavored. Perhaps ice cream is the greatest art of all.

Mom:

My thoughts are with you today.

I love you.

Dad, take good care of her!

My thoughts are with you too.

Breaks me is better.

Yesterday I tried to act surprised in a french commercial for xBox. I was forced to wear a stupid red hat, Ariane was forced to wear a stupid grey shirt.

Then thai food. And shopping. And italian food. And a drink with Guillaume on the most bar-filled street in Paris. They pack them like matchboxes next to each other.

And Be Happy was quite happy and quite british.

Last night on the metro back to the very chic end of Paris a group of drunk people sang a song they all knew in french. I wanted to join in but of course I didn't know the words.

One more thing:

I just read that previous post out loud to Ariane.

Her thoughts: "Nice. I like it. You didn't talk about my cowboy boots."

Ariane bought cowboy boots after Le Louvre. I am not allowed to say their price.

People pull the bags under their eyes here.

Last night, I ate a hamburger with a fork and a knife while debating the english-ness of occassion versus opportunity. Caroline had used occassion, Ariane corrected her. I can't remember the sentence, but I thought both worked. And who is the expert?

We talked about other things but I think I had a stronger sense of the fact that no matter how much you travel, your thoughts come with you. Your ghosts stay firmly in the pockets of your jacket, ready to be brought out accidentally while you search for a 2 euro coin. Cobbled streets and cafés on every corner are not eternal sunshine for spotless minds, they are just new places to think about them.

The only thing that manages to make those ghosts more opaque are new people. Like Caroline, who likes to make faces while she does impressions and should quit her job (apparently). And Julien who has had a bad year but an excellent apartment and looks a bit like a model.

Yesterday we went to a self-indulgent art exhibit on dreams which I enjoyed for all of its post post post modernism, and got to play a bit of bad guitar. And then Ariane took me to the canals which reminded me of the part in Amelie when she drops (litters) her empty fishbowl.

Lovely, for a Tuesday.

And Wednesday was another trip to that creperie that made me a believer in flat food covered in sugar and citrus (I was just a little bit skeptical before).

And then... Le Louvre. With La Jocund and Victoire à Samonthrace and a (painting of a) table covered in hacked open seafood being set upon by a barking seal, and egyptian hieroglyphics (in two places). Lots of art. Arty things. We were breezy, talking about anatomy depiction and the strange inability of dutch painters to paint interesting things, and the sheer ugliness of most women and babies in nearly all paintings. Sara: I'm afraid some of the art was lost upon a philistine like me, but I still had an excellent time.

Tonight: Be Happy!

That's the movie we are seeing and a general directive.

Discount sale on gargoyles.

A recipe for an excellent parisian evening:

First, un voyage à la supermarché. (Flight of the Conchords reference... sort of...). We bought (Nous avons acheté) du jambon (ham), cheese (la fromage), du pain (bread), avocat (avocado), and chocolate (chocolate).

Then we ate that and listened to Lindstrom in Ariane's apartment.

Then, add Charlotte, who lived in San Francisco for her teenage years and therefore has a perfect american accent when she speaks english. We went to a bar for wine and conversation.

Add Philou, Marie, and Jane. Drink and talk a little, go outside and smoke a little.

This was the evening, and it was good fun. I think my favorite part of the evening was talking to Jane, who speaks very little english, and trying to get her to understand my terrible French. I told her that Ariane said she was a "chanseuse" which means "lucky one". I meant "chanteuse", which is singer. But perhaps she is lucky too, who am I to say?

I also bought a baby dragon. And took the metro by myself at 1 AM.

Oh! And we got those Herman Dune tickets.

C'est geniale.

Strange thing about Paris: everyone smokes inside their apartments. This is odd!

"Chouette" means cool. Or it meant cool. I think it's like how radical used to be cool. Now, people say "super" (soop-air) and "geniale".

I think I am spelling all of that right.

Yesterday, Paul took me and Ariane to Virgin records. He asked me to choose three cds for him... so I found him She and Him, Of Montreal, and Belle and Sebastian.

So... we shall see. He gave me a best of collection of George Brassens and Françoise Hardy, and I love both. Also, Françoise Hardy is cute!

Today, a little shopping? a little trying to get Herman Dune tickets? a little more of Paris?

J'espere que tu m'oublira pas jamais.

No one says "chouette" anymore.

Last night was another evening spent in the company of Ariane's friends - some of the most attractive people I have ever seen. All well dressed and stylish, but in some sort of easy fashion that I can't exactly put my finger on.

I keep telling Ariane I am having an excellent time. She was right, I was always going to fall for Paris.

Before the rendezvous with Ariane's friends we ate a three course meal with my uncle Paul and Katherine, and my uncle who I had never met before, Paul's brother, Daniel and his wife Ann. At "Le Clos des Gourmets". They gave me a menu in English, to my dismay.

And this morning we spent another hour in a cafe with Julien, and ate Japanese cuisine in an open air market.

Every day my resolve grows to learn French and return.

Now, we are off to meet Paul in a Virgin records. He likes Vampire Weekend and would like to buy their CD.

Hey Porter!

Some highlights:

-Paul... my uncle(?) giving me a tour of Paris with Johnny Cash playing in the background.

-Paul's theory on Parisian girl anatomy, featuring darwinism.

-A room full of Ariane's friends talking, drinking, switching funny hats and sunglasses and rapping along to Sugarhill Gang and Li'l Jon.

-A real crepe in a real creperie that was wizarding-world-like in its hideaway-ness.

-The constant banter between me and Ariane.

-Observing five friends talk amongst themselves in a language I don't fully understand on a slightly drizzled, yellow-lit Paris street.

Perhaps I should learn more french and settle in Paris. I definitely have a crush on this city - it could even be that we are sweethearts. Tonight, we listen to a wailing singer in a french bar called La Feline after a dinner with Hermelins...

strange things.

Hey, who knew that I liked observing as much as I liked conversing?

more tomorrow.

Ersatz

Here is what you do: go into youtube, type julien doré, and click the song "les limites". Done?

Okay good. Now we are listening to the same music.

I got lost near the Eiffel Tower yesterday, and used everything I could remember from French class to talk to Yanne at breakfast and order a coffee for when I was lost.

Ariane and I walked the streets of Paris again, and I think my eyes were cast upward most of the time. Although, I also looked down to not get hit by one of the many tiny cars of Paris. Vintage Mini Coopers are commonplace. L'Arc de Triomphe is quite stunning... as architecture and as a miserably intense traffic pattern.

In a café that I cannot remember the name of we met many people, and one dog who wanted attention and would get it by lumbering into the cafe and sticking his nose in people's laps. His name was Gum.

And we watched terrible short films projected onto a screen in a parisian park.

and I bought the CD of that guy I had you search for at the beginning.

hold up. wait wait a minute.

"cheesy is romance for dogs." - Ariane

Paris is more incredible than I could have imagined. How do people fall in love here when there is the city to fall in love with? Or, maybe that's the problem... people fall in love with the streets and cafés on every corner and mistake it for love for the person they are with.

Eleven hour flights are miserable. I listened to half of every album on my ipod... that's the manner my stir craziness manifested itself. That, and an awful new story about a boy who wants to be in love with a mermaid.

More later. Ths keyboard is unmanageable.

bold men.

So I have been hanging out with my parents. We ate excellent food (bacon wrapped filet mignon, freshly grilled chicken), saw the Batman movie, and bought things for my trip. We talked and joked and I played them Vampire Weekend and Herman Dune. I made a salad and tried to get them to go to California Pizza Kitchen. They bought me a backpacking backpack and a huge suitcase that can do a 360.

I love them. I'll miss them.

I also saw Devon. and Chelsea. Old friends who will never seem old. New experiences all the time. I'm going to miss everyone here.

And guess what? I'm going to miss the good ol' USA.

Goodbye country (state) I know. Hello new worlds.