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I present three evenings spent in Lyon. You may contrast and compare at leisure.
Night One
I decided to embrace my status as an outsider rather than desperately attempting to fit in (which is what made me bored). When I go on vacation, what do I do but explore alone all the time? I love doing it in new places. I've been so caught up in trying to establish myself I forgot about my most reliable partner: the city.
I ate dinner at home with Laurent; he made an omelette with (I think) Raclette and a salad. We discussed the methods of omelette making. He uses rendered duck fat instead of oil for sauteing, which he grew up with. Duck fat, he claims, is a lot healthier than butter OR oil which I need to research. It tastes great though, no significant difference from oil; less of a taste. Sometimes olive oil can demand its own presence in your dish even if you don't want it to contribute a flavor, particularly with cheaper quality. Duck fat is light and buttery only. Looking online: apparently duck fat is a contributor to the 'French paradox' wherein they eat more fat and have less heart attacks; Laurent did tell me that it doesn't clog the arteries. The salads here are also very simple; they come with every meal and are just lettuce and dressing. I miss my mother's salads a little, with fruit and nuts and cheese.
I grabbed my ebook, my journal and took the bus to Vieux Lyon, vieux being old; it's cobblestoned, cathedraled, and caféd. Like an romantic ass, I decided not to pick a café until it 'felt right' which meant I passed by dozens of suitable ones until I almost walked out of Vieux Lyon. I settled at a Bar du Vin when I saw a man in a striped shirt. 'Ah, yes, this is France.' 6 euros for a glass of rosé and I settled in with my book (Hemingway's Movable Feast because I will attempt to construct moments like that).I talked to no one and wrote a lot. Sometimes I wish I could do nothing but journal but that would leave a lack of time to do things to fill in the journal. I'm home a little past midnight, taking the bus up.
Night Two
Felt itchy and Clara promised me that we would go out clubbing until five am (which is normal, what the hell). She slept on a couch and was exhausted but once we got out she perked up, especially when we meet Morgan (Mor-gaaaihne) on the bus; Morgan has a voice that resembles a satin dressing gown and the mannerisms to match. We started at a cafe ironically right next to the wine bar I went to the night before; Clara's friend Charline had her photography displayed there and it's funny how these kinds of things are universal as I went to a similar 'showing' with the girls from LG Roasting Co a month before. This time, though, I am ready and willing to buy something. Charline's photos look like Annie Lebowitz work and one of them has a blonde girl smiling lightly with 'Pour quoi tu es méchant?' (Why are you mean?) written behind her. This photo is clearly meant for me.
All of Clara's friends---most French that I've seen really---have natural beauty in a very present way. They're all clear-skinned with perfect lipstick and clean, unstyled hair. I feel like a toucan next to them; loud and colorful and a little fake. That's something we have as Americans--a prevalence in our dress of costume. We don't mind if we look unnatural or you can see the work that goes into it. I may be the only girl with green hair in the country.
We spent something like two hours at the café, eating dinner and chatting. Smoking in France, by the way is largely incidental in that it occurs because they are designed to expel smoke, not CO2. By the time we left the cafe, it was almost eleven, but I wasn't tired---it's relaxing to sit and listen and not be expected to speak. I try to count how many slang words I hear. Clara asks me often "Do you understand?" especially if it's funny, and then tells me the story in English.
From the café, we went to the Rhône River quay. The bank is lit in soft multicolor; it was almost midnight but it felt like dusk. The quay is liberally sprinkled with groups of jeunes Francais (young French people) sitting and chatting. Kids are darting around, adults walk sedately past; the bottles of wine and beer are many but seem incidental. Clara & Co & I sat and talked for another hour and a half, working on a few beers and a bottle of rosé. It's wonderful, it's exactly how I prefer spending my evening if I'm going out---good thing I found an entire country that agrees with me. At half past midnight, we got up and strolled over to the line for the club---and that is the worst part of the evening, standing in line and moving ten feet and watching the funnel effects of cutters. Thank god we gave up after an hour and just went home by taxi.
Night Three
I spent some time at home with Clara's friends since she's having a small party--which means sitting around the table, smoking, chatting, drinking. It's a lot of fun to watch her boyfriend Jessie pick on people; he's acidic and snide to the girls who either laugh or jab back. There's lots of tongue clicking and "Ah, typiquement," with verbal eyeroll. And then I escaped to meet the Americans, who are drinking in Croix Rousse---and that's difference, because the night before I 'went out' and this night I 'went drinking'.
Croix Rousse is on the other hill of Lyon, and we dangled our feet over a piazza edge, determinedly drinking wine. The French boys we're with are rude and irritating--one speaks flawless English (mother from Cleveland) but is unfortunately pretentious, and the other suggested a girl and I should kiss each other to prove we're bisexual. I asked her if I'm allowed to break his nose instead.
We walked across most of the city, laughing and slipping and getting lost; we reached the base of my hill and then they had to all walk home and I had to hike up home; so, an Amazon in tweed shorts and heeled boots swinging and swilling a half-empty bottle of wine. Everyone I passed was concerned about me. I was concerned about the hill and completely forgot my dad's hiking rules about small steps. It took an hour, and today my legs hate me.
French vocab:
moeuf: slang for 'femme', literally just 'femme' backwards. Apparently that's how most French slang is constructed. Female/French version of 'dude'.
mec: slang for 'homme'. French/male version of 'dude'.
Pas grave: Not serious, don't worry about it.
Ça marche: That works, that's good.
Night One
I decided to embrace my status as an outsider rather than desperately attempting to fit in (which is what made me bored). When I go on vacation, what do I do but explore alone all the time? I love doing it in new places. I've been so caught up in trying to establish myself I forgot about my most reliable partner: the city.
I ate dinner at home with Laurent; he made an omelette with (I think) Raclette and a salad. We discussed the methods of omelette making. He uses rendered duck fat instead of oil for sauteing, which he grew up with. Duck fat, he claims, is a lot healthier than butter OR oil which I need to research. It tastes great though, no significant difference from oil; less of a taste. Sometimes olive oil can demand its own presence in your dish even if you don't want it to contribute a flavor, particularly with cheaper quality. Duck fat is light and buttery only. Looking online: apparently duck fat is a contributor to the 'French paradox' wherein they eat more fat and have less heart attacks; Laurent did tell me that it doesn't clog the arteries. The salads here are also very simple; they come with every meal and are just lettuce and dressing. I miss my mother's salads a little, with fruit and nuts and cheese.
I grabbed my ebook, my journal and took the bus to Vieux Lyon, vieux being old; it's cobblestoned, cathedraled, and caféd. Like an romantic ass, I decided not to pick a café until it 'felt right' which meant I passed by dozens of suitable ones until I almost walked out of Vieux Lyon. I settled at a Bar du Vin when I saw a man in a striped shirt. 'Ah, yes, this is France.' 6 euros for a glass of rosé and I settled in with my book (Hemingway's Movable Feast because I will attempt to construct moments like that).I talked to no one and wrote a lot. Sometimes I wish I could do nothing but journal but that would leave a lack of time to do things to fill in the journal. I'm home a little past midnight, taking the bus up.
Night Two
Felt itchy and Clara promised me that we would go out clubbing until five am (which is normal, what the hell). She slept on a couch and was exhausted but once we got out she perked up, especially when we meet Morgan (Mor-gaaaihne) on the bus; Morgan has a voice that resembles a satin dressing gown and the mannerisms to match. We started at a cafe ironically right next to the wine bar I went to the night before; Clara's friend Charline had her photography displayed there and it's funny how these kinds of things are universal as I went to a similar 'showing' with the girls from LG Roasting Co a month before. This time, though, I am ready and willing to buy something. Charline's photos look like Annie Lebowitz work and one of them has a blonde girl smiling lightly with 'Pour quoi tu es méchant?' (Why are you mean?) written behind her. This photo is clearly meant for me.
All of Clara's friends---most French that I've seen really---have natural beauty in a very present way. They're all clear-skinned with perfect lipstick and clean, unstyled hair. I feel like a toucan next to them; loud and colorful and a little fake. That's something we have as Americans--a prevalence in our dress of costume. We don't mind if we look unnatural or you can see the work that goes into it. I may be the only girl with green hair in the country.
We spent something like two hours at the café, eating dinner and chatting. Smoking in France, by the way is largely incidental in that it occurs because they are designed to expel smoke, not CO2. By the time we left the cafe, it was almost eleven, but I wasn't tired---it's relaxing to sit and listen and not be expected to speak. I try to count how many slang words I hear. Clara asks me often "Do you understand?" especially if it's funny, and then tells me the story in English.
From the café, we went to the Rhône River quay. The bank is lit in soft multicolor; it was almost midnight but it felt like dusk. The quay is liberally sprinkled with groups of jeunes Francais (young French people) sitting and chatting. Kids are darting around, adults walk sedately past; the bottles of wine and beer are many but seem incidental. Clara & Co & I sat and talked for another hour and a half, working on a few beers and a bottle of rosé. It's wonderful, it's exactly how I prefer spending my evening if I'm going out---good thing I found an entire country that agrees with me. At half past midnight, we got up and strolled over to the line for the club---and that is the worst part of the evening, standing in line and moving ten feet and watching the funnel effects of cutters. Thank god we gave up after an hour and just went home by taxi.
Night Three
I spent some time at home with Clara's friends since she's having a small party--which means sitting around the table, smoking, chatting, drinking. It's a lot of fun to watch her boyfriend Jessie pick on people; he's acidic and snide to the girls who either laugh or jab back. There's lots of tongue clicking and "Ah, typiquement," with verbal eyeroll. And then I escaped to meet the Americans, who are drinking in Croix Rousse---and that's difference, because the night before I 'went out' and this night I 'went drinking'.
Croix Rousse is on the other hill of Lyon, and we dangled our feet over a piazza edge, determinedly drinking wine. The French boys we're with are rude and irritating--one speaks flawless English (mother from Cleveland) but is unfortunately pretentious, and the other suggested a girl and I should kiss each other to prove we're bisexual. I asked her if I'm allowed to break his nose instead.
We walked across most of the city, laughing and slipping and getting lost; we reached the base of my hill and then they had to all walk home and I had to hike up home; so, an Amazon in tweed shorts and heeled boots swinging and swilling a half-empty bottle of wine. Everyone I passed was concerned about me. I was concerned about the hill and completely forgot my dad's hiking rules about small steps. It took an hour, and today my legs hate me.
French vocab:
moeuf: slang for 'femme', literally just 'femme' backwards. Apparently that's how most French slang is constructed. Female/French version of 'dude'.
mec: slang for 'homme'. French/male version of 'dude'.
Pas grave: Not serious, don't worry about it.
Ça marche: That works, that's good.
I've now visited two markets in Lyon: a typical marché which is a farmer's market type-deal and a Carrefour. Carrefour is technically a Walmart, but it's a French Walmart which means it is clean and fancy and really fancy did I mention that? I don't feel lower class for being inside it. It's inside a really lovely mall (I can't believe I'm calling a mall 'lovely'). The top floor of Carrefour is all food items and the best bit: they have THREE AISLES OF CHEESE. It was awesome. I almost bought rose-apple juice because what the hell, I'm in France and there is no rose-apple juice in the US. But, you know, money. Instead I spent my money on red currants and chips and Starbucks shots. Useful shit. Oddly, I have little to say on the matter of the marché; it's quite similar to the farmer's markets in Saratoga!
Speaking of useful, in the UC student office in the university there is a pile of stuff that other students have left behind. Four of the girls in my class and I went 'shopping'. One girl came away with an entire backpack full of stuff; I nicked a pair of horrible bright pink flats for dance, a straightener, and a Zara shirt. Someone left a crap ton of Zara things. WHY would you do that? I understand leaving shoes, but Zara? Come on.
Lyon is lovely, I'm sure, but I've visited the same three places in the past five days and it makes me more bored than I should be. University, Bellecour (the downtown district), and my house. So I've resolved to see more of Lyon--for example, there's a church on the top of the hill that I haven't visited yet, and I haven't been to ONE museum. Scandalous. I did wander a little around Vieux Lyon (the old part) which was Paris-like. But I need to try more to be proactive and do my research. My parents dragged me around Europe by the ear into churches and museums and anything remotely historic and educational. I'm in the oldest city in France. There's got to be something to look at, right?
Let's not speak about the university itself; it's four hours every day without break of French at the speed of snails. We're not even taking classes through the university which is quite disappointing. This could prove to be a problem; when I tried to get access to the library, I was not allowed to use the computers since I'm not 'technically' a student. I'm a little worried.
On the other hand, I ate calamari on Sunday evening and LIKED it. It was bomb. I'm currently drinking a glass of French wine; life could be a lot worse.
Speaking of useful, in the UC student office in the university there is a pile of stuff that other students have left behind. Four of the girls in my class and I went 'shopping'. One girl came away with an entire backpack full of stuff; I nicked a pair of horrible bright pink flats for dance, a straightener, and a Zara shirt. Someone left a crap ton of Zara things. WHY would you do that? I understand leaving shoes, but Zara? Come on.
Lyon is lovely, I'm sure, but I've visited the same three places in the past five days and it makes me more bored than I should be. University, Bellecour (the downtown district), and my house. So I've resolved to see more of Lyon--for example, there's a church on the top of the hill that I haven't visited yet, and I haven't been to ONE museum. Scandalous. I did wander a little around Vieux Lyon (the old part) which was Paris-like. But I need to try more to be proactive and do my research. My parents dragged me around Europe by the ear into churches and museums and anything remotely historic and educational. I'm in the oldest city in France. There's got to be something to look at, right?
Let's not speak about the university itself; it's four hours every day without break of French at the speed of snails. We're not even taking classes through the university which is quite disappointing. This could prove to be a problem; when I tried to get access to the library, I was not allowed to use the computers since I'm not 'technically' a student. I'm a little worried.
On the other hand, I ate calamari on Sunday evening and LIKED it. It was bomb. I'm currently drinking a glass of French wine; life could be a lot worse.
Two things I hate in this world: DIY aesthetic (instead of actually DIY) and Revivalist architecture.
You know what would go perfectly with this cathedral that is actually made of brick and steel but covered in some cheap one-inch marble sheeting built in 1870, 400 goddamn years after Gothic architecture?
Maybe the church worshippers can sit on these cute little stools at $300 a pop. Love the rough-hewn wood. My boyfriend would totally build one for me if it wasn’t illegal to chop down trees from the parks in Palo Alto.
Or it would also go great in our castle out in the ‘burbs.
If you’re not too much into the Gothic kind of style, this stick-for-stick reproduction of a Tudor House taken from the 1500’s seems really practical.
I saw this dresser at Anthropologie going for $1300. I know it seems pricey, but how else are going to pretend you do lesbian carpentry?
.
I’ll probably have to get coasters for this coffee table. I
would hate for the distressed paint job to get dirty.
Bonjour. Haha.
I am typing this in the garden (jardin) of the house I am staying at; there is a cloth covered table and four small wooden folding chairs along with a bench and a few plants on the cobblestone veranda; tree branches stretch over the table (pear, maybe?) hung with a sting of multicolor bulbs that are very pleasant to sit under at night. Last night as we were eating dinner, a hedgehog trundled out from the plants at the bass of the tree. Rather than lunge for a bb gun, Sylvie surveyed it over her wine glass and said to me, "C'est un hérisson, tu sais." So there is a new vocab word: hérisson means hedgehog, and a new concept: we don't chase animals out of the garden. I hope I see the hérisson this morning, but it might be solely nocturnal.
Last night on a post-dinner walk with Sylvie--who is the mother in the household I am staying with--I also saw two rabbits or so and more birds than my father could chase away. There are two house cats as well, Farine and Kimono. Kimono is shy but slinks by me occasionally and just 'happens' to rub my leg. Super subtle, Kimono. Farine (which means flour) thinks she's a princess and according to Clara--the daughter, who is my age--Farine is an unfaithful jerk who fawns over all the exchange program students that stay here.
My program starts this evening! I am going to have dinner with all the exchange students in the program and then stay over at the university or something. Which is sad, because I am already strongly attached to my bed here; I sleep in a tiny garret at the top of the house and it is very small and very comfortable. It's all in shades of light blue with just enough shelves for my clothes and a tiny desk to work at. The bed takes up most of the room which is how I like it. All I do in my room usually is sleep and dress anyway.
My French has improved rapidly, by necessity--Sylvie doesn't speak English, and Clara a little but prefers French. Laurent, Clara's stepfather, does speak English, but I haven't met him yet. His music collection takes up most of every spare shelf in the house, AND he cooks! I am eager to meet him.
Speaking of cooking, I know Manini wants a description of the food I eat (probably other people do too). So far it's been simple stuff, but of the best quality. Last night I had bread toasted with thick slices of brie served over salad with a vinaigrette and a glass of a nice, sharp-ish Syrah. Before I went to bed I had a beer (don't remember which, but it was pretty good, Hanah would like it) and some tea. I am sad that my Kona coffee is running out so fast, but it's very good. I had it with breakfast today, which was just some toasted bread and blueberry jam, and yogurt with strawberries 'préparés' which means the strawberries were cooked thoroughly into a syrup. It was very, very good. I have to remember the salad idea for dinner for roommates in SB, though I'll switch to lemon juice & olive oil, and find something other than cheese for Nicole.
I am typing this in the garden (jardin) of the house I am staying at; there is a cloth covered table and four small wooden folding chairs along with a bench and a few plants on the cobblestone veranda; tree branches stretch over the table (pear, maybe?) hung with a sting of multicolor bulbs that are very pleasant to sit under at night. Last night as we were eating dinner, a hedgehog trundled out from the plants at the bass of the tree. Rather than lunge for a bb gun, Sylvie surveyed it over her wine glass and said to me, "C'est un hérisson, tu sais." So there is a new vocab word: hérisson means hedgehog, and a new concept: we don't chase animals out of the garden. I hope I see the hérisson this morning, but it might be solely nocturnal.
Last night on a post-dinner walk with Sylvie--who is the mother in the household I am staying with--I also saw two rabbits or so and more birds than my father could chase away. There are two house cats as well, Farine and Kimono. Kimono is shy but slinks by me occasionally and just 'happens' to rub my leg. Super subtle, Kimono. Farine (which means flour) thinks she's a princess and according to Clara--the daughter, who is my age--Farine is an unfaithful jerk who fawns over all the exchange program students that stay here.
My program starts this evening! I am going to have dinner with all the exchange students in the program and then stay over at the university or something. Which is sad, because I am already strongly attached to my bed here; I sleep in a tiny garret at the top of the house and it is very small and very comfortable. It's all in shades of light blue with just enough shelves for my clothes and a tiny desk to work at. The bed takes up most of the room which is how I like it. All I do in my room usually is sleep and dress anyway.
My French has improved rapidly, by necessity--Sylvie doesn't speak English, and Clara a little but prefers French. Laurent, Clara's stepfather, does speak English, but I haven't met him yet. His music collection takes up most of every spare shelf in the house, AND he cooks! I am eager to meet him.
Speaking of cooking, I know Manini wants a description of the food I eat (probably other people do too). So far it's been simple stuff, but of the best quality. Last night I had bread toasted with thick slices of brie served over salad with a vinaigrette and a glass of a nice, sharp-ish Syrah. Before I went to bed I had a beer (don't remember which, but it was pretty good, Hanah would like it) and some tea. I am sad that my Kona coffee is running out so fast, but it's very good. I had it with breakfast today, which was just some toasted bread and blueberry jam, and yogurt with strawberries 'préparés' which means the strawberries were cooked thoroughly into a syrup. It was very, very good. I have to remember the salad idea for dinner for roommates in SB, though I'll switch to lemon juice & olive oil, and find something other than cheese for Nicole.
I've been musing on creativity and productivity recently, directly influenced by my rediscovering of both.
Winter quarter in school was very difficult for me. I overwhelmed myself in a subject I didn't feel passion for and subsequently was incredibly stressed by my inability to do my work and by constantly forcing myself to 'love' it. It did not end well.
Spring break was perfect for me in terms of a readjustment, and I left for my spring quarter armed with the promise to myself that I would not overload myself with classes. In fact, I would underload. In a surprise to no one, I performed amazingly well in all of my classes.
Traditionally, when I go on vacation abroad. my creativity in writing peaks. I become eager to write---letters to my friends, fiction that has little to do with my surroundings. It can be laughable sometimes, because I'm torn between the desire to sightsee or to park myself in a cafe and write. It's not just my drive to write that returns, but also my desire to read. I can conquer much more difficult material.
The conclusion is also entirely unsurprising. When we relax, we do better. It's not just relaxing though---it's the lack of diversion. Organic stimuli from environment such as nature or architecture, chosen by me, has a greater capacity to inspire me than course materials. When I get to choose whether or not I want to be 'diverted' at the moment, I have long periods of chosen blankness as well, where I can let my brain ferment. It's different from turning on the tv and vegging out, because our brains might be essentially disengaged from work or play or stress, but we are still somewhat actively paying attention to another external stimuli. This does not let the mind wander. And when my mind wanders, I tend to have brighter period of productivity to complement it, because I can patiently wait for an idea to present itself, rather than scouring what might be an empty cavern.
I'm not sure how the mind really works as far as presenting ideas or solutions goes (something I'd love to learn). But it's well-known we get our best thoughts when we are in the shower, or trying to fall asleep. I'd say it is because we do not have to pay attention to something right then and there, and so our brains take a walk. We explore, possibly subconsciously, things we may have experienced earlier that day, until a relevant solution or observation drifts to the forefront.
And then, of course, we have to get out of bed to write it down immediately. Like this blog post.
Winter quarter in school was very difficult for me. I overwhelmed myself in a subject I didn't feel passion for and subsequently was incredibly stressed by my inability to do my work and by constantly forcing myself to 'love' it. It did not end well.
Spring break was perfect for me in terms of a readjustment, and I left for my spring quarter armed with the promise to myself that I would not overload myself with classes. In fact, I would underload. In a surprise to no one, I performed amazingly well in all of my classes.
Traditionally, when I go on vacation abroad. my creativity in writing peaks. I become eager to write---letters to my friends, fiction that has little to do with my surroundings. It can be laughable sometimes, because I'm torn between the desire to sightsee or to park myself in a cafe and write. It's not just my drive to write that returns, but also my desire to read. I can conquer much more difficult material.
The conclusion is also entirely unsurprising. When we relax, we do better. It's not just relaxing though---it's the lack of diversion. Organic stimuli from environment such as nature or architecture, chosen by me, has a greater capacity to inspire me than course materials. When I get to choose whether or not I want to be 'diverted' at the moment, I have long periods of chosen blankness as well, where I can let my brain ferment. It's different from turning on the tv and vegging out, because our brains might be essentially disengaged from work or play or stress, but we are still somewhat actively paying attention to another external stimuli. This does not let the mind wander. And when my mind wanders, I tend to have brighter period of productivity to complement it, because I can patiently wait for an idea to present itself, rather than scouring what might be an empty cavern.
I'm not sure how the mind really works as far as presenting ideas or solutions goes (something I'd love to learn). But it's well-known we get our best thoughts when we are in the shower, or trying to fall asleep. I'd say it is because we do not have to pay attention to something right then and there, and so our brains take a walk. We explore, possibly subconsciously, things we may have experienced earlier that day, until a relevant solution or observation drifts to the forefront.
And then, of course, we have to get out of bed to write it down immediately. Like this blog post.
Labels: creativity, neuro, writing
This blog will be, at times, a glorious paean to food. I can't help it. Where most people think with their stomach when it comes to eating, I think with everything above the neck. My stomach has little to do with my appetite.
I'm sitting at my little corner table in the living room, eating toast and and a fried egg---but it's toast with fresh grated tomato on top, mixed with a little olive oil, a bit of salt and pepper. Since I'm doing breakfast in reverse, as the Spanish do, I made myself a coffee cocktail to go with it, with orange and sugar. It's a warm dusk right now, and I'm wearing my short shorts. I finished my first round of midterms; all I want to do this evening is make merry with my friends and read architecture texts.
I'm sitting at my little corner table in the living room, eating toast and and a fried egg---but it's toast with fresh grated tomato on top, mixed with a little olive oil, a bit of salt and pepper. Since I'm doing breakfast in reverse, as the Spanish do, I made myself a coffee cocktail to go with it, with orange and sugar. It's a warm dusk right now, and I'm wearing my short shorts. I finished my first round of midterms; all I want to do this evening is make merry with my friends and read architecture texts.