There are somethings about Paris that make the list of must-sees, and must-dos for anyone coming for a short stay. I will compile a list at the end of my year here and leave it as the last entry--a relic of a year gone by.

There are also a million little adventures to be had. Thousands of things are happening everyday in this city and these are part of what makes it such a great place to live. Every city has their quirks--and--well, Paris has quite a few. Most things can be appreciated in passing: The angry strikers lining the street in November, the equally angry 13-year olds in the Parc de St. Cloud every Friday morning on their required run for class, the man outside of Notre Dame last Sunday just about to take off on his "bike ride around the world", etc... These are the things that you can not escape when living in a big city, they are the moments that give Paris her character.

Most of the time I prefer to be the passerby, smiling under my French "face" and taking pictures when possible. Over this last semester, I have gathered quite a collection of these moments. Most will have to wait until I return as I can't access all of my pictures--but I can share a few from this past month:

A Rolls Royce parked outside of the Armani Emporium on my way to class. Was the big guy checking out his merchandise?!

Of course the BEST Converses come in neon orange and purple/turquoise!

Harder to see, this is a funeral at St. Germain de Pres: the church near my school. The crowds were massive and there were news crews everywhere. We learned it was "Carlos" a famous French singer who lived on the block.

Sometimes, however, it is just as cool to be right in the thick of it. This last weekend, my French Revolution and Napoleon course took a walking tour of "revolutionary Paris". We met at 1pm and C and I returned home at midnight after a full day of wandering the streets of Paris, seeing the houses where Robespierre, Danton, and Marat lived (and it Marat's case--and died), eating crepes outside the Concergerie where Marie Antoinette was held prisoner before her execution, passing by the home of Dr. Guillotine--the inventor of the "more humanitarian" killing machine, and enjoying a dinner at a pizza place with the rest of our mixed francophone/anglophone class.

Here is our American professor standing up on a post next to the Louvre. We picked up a few tourists on our way.

At 7pm we reached the Church of the Madeleine with intention of WATCHING the planned event for that night. It was the anniversary of Louis XVIth sentence to death in 1793 and we had heard rumors that the Action Francaise was putting on a procession to commemorate the event. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by 200 members. Royalists. Monarchists. After playing up the American tourist facade, we learned that they are a group of very Catholic, old money, families who believe that Louis was "murdered". They are for a monarchy--to them, the French republic is the down fall of society. Keep in mind, this was over 200 years ago. They even passed out fliers for their next meeting where they would be discussing the necessity for a return to the Franc--no more Euro!! The handed us candles and song sheets and began to march and sing.. at this point, there was little we could do and we were enveloped by the crowd and carried along to the church where Louis and Marie Antoinette are buried. Here, the laid flowers at their graves and made speeches. Most entertaining of all was that the participants were all members of conservative, upper class families: there were little boys in scouts uniforms, and girls in pea coats and the best leather boots, there were elderly women in furs and 20 year-old men sporting white scarfs. Not the kind of crowd you would have expected. The whole route was lined with media and people watched from their apartments perched nice and high--unlike us--they were safe from being identified as part of this extremist crowd. In the end, it was one Paris moment among many, but one that I will never forget.

I think this video will better illustrate: Steph and Carly are the ones with the gasping faces!

As my days in Paris have turned from weeks to months, I have become more and more confident in my ability to live on my own. I have mastered the transportation system and can find my way around most quarters without pulling out a map (the trick is to always know where you are in relation to the Seine). With the days of organizing and setting up accounts behind me, I am now able to charge my cell phone and transfer/withdrawal money without any hassles. I know where to find the freshest produce, the cheapest nylons and the European equivalent to baking soda. I know when to avoid certain museums and when to arrive to make it into the library at the Centre Pompidou in under an hour. I am a regular at the shoe repair shop. I may have found the only café in Paris (besides Starbucks) which allows you to sit for hours with books after only ordering a coffee. (Café de l’Industrie at Metro: Bastille). These and the always necessary “don’t mess with me” Paris face combine to create the perfect all-knowing façade that allows one to wander the streets without drawing unwanted attention. At times, even I am convinced that I have truly become a partial Parisien “femme”. Of course, this is just the time when Paris decides to remind me that—even in the smallest ways—I am not.

Example #1) On Monday morning, I finally decided to gather up my 3 weeks worth of laundry (some of it from before the holidays!) and roll my overstuffed suitcase down to the Laundromat. I have given up on waiting for a clear day—no matter the forecast, it always manages to rain on the day I need to carry pounds of clothes 15 minutes into downtown Sèvres (without free hands, I can’t carry an umbrella!). On this particular morning, the owner of the Laundromat was doing his daily check-up and had a good laugh when I entered with soaking hair. It turns out that this was a good ice breaker. As I loaded the machines, he told me about his ambitions to be a pilot and travel the world and gave me tips about which dryer worked the fastest. “Seulement 2 fois!” (Meaning that my towels would be dry in 16 minutes on high heat! This was actually a very nice thing to find out—as it had been taking an average of 3 hours with the machine I had been using all semester.) It wasn’t until just before starting the wash that I once again became the naïve foreigner. “Avez-vous la lessive?” –Oui, of course I had detergent, it was in my hand! Or at least…as I soon learned—the fabric softener was in my hand. It turned out I have been washing my clothes with it all semester—not with detergent. My impulse to by the container with the first word I understood “hypo-allergenique” at the beginning of the year had led to repeat purchases of the same product without further review. You can imagine my mother’s response when I informed her of this. I had indeed succumbed to that French stereotype of not washing! Don’t worry, I think there must have been some cleaning agent in it, they always smelled good! It was a good thing that the “laverie” sold detergent by the cup.

My second example is not quite as good, but was equally entertaining to the witnesses I am sure. After my 3rd pair of shoes (the ones I had had fixed earlier) fell victim to the elements of Paris streets, I had the brilliant idea of bringing my remaining boots to the repair shop for some preventative work. Unfortunately, this meant that I was left with the choice of running shoes (definitely not an option) or flats to wear to class on one of the rainiest days yet. Aware of the hazards of this choice, I made the extra effort of placing importance on the position of each step as I walked to class that morning. Of course, a momentary loss of focus—caused by a forgotten ‘bisous’ as I parted from a friend—led to a cartoon-esque slip and inevitable collision with the ground outside of the café we had just occupied. Waiters came running and pedestrians and café-people-watchers goggled.

At least I am sure to be remembered when I return—both to my Laundromat and the café.

I am quickly realizing that trial-and-error is certainly the most effective method of learning and am convinced that the title of this blog site should have been “Cassie’s Final Attempt to Find Grace.”

It has been one week since I dropped my mom off at Charles de Gaulle to fly back to the Colorado—meaning I have now been converted back to “student” status and can’t get away playing “tourist” if I feel particularly intimidated by a Parisien. A non French-speaking mother in your back pocket transforms a 20-something girl on her own into an unapproachable traveler—not worth the effort: whether to shady men on the street with only one agenda or to bureaucrats who feel it is their responsibility to lecture on the necessity of integration into the culture. In a way it is nice to return to my adventurous independent life where I learn something new everyday but that doesn’t mean that I don’t miss my mom more then ever right now.

For two and a half weeks, we were les tourists that I have mocked since arrival. We wandered the streets with cameras in hand, flocked to the Mona Lisa upon entering the Louvre, and braved the long lines at the base of the Eiffel Tower (though it wasn’t until the 3rd attempt that we were patient enough to manage an ascent). However, we also had our non-tourist moments: walking back to my house in Sèvres at the end of the day, passing directly through the metro entrance instead of standing for 15 minutes looking at maps, and making a gigantic pot of soup that would last us for 4 dinners and a lunch with Stephanie and her mom.

We saw an outstanding amount of monuments and museums, quarters and cafés and I had a great time playing tour guide—showing my mom all of my favorite things. One of our best nights was at the Opera Garnier with S and her mom. We secured cheap box seats on a last-minute decision the night before and were fascinated with the regal atmosphere and the dress of the obvious regulars. The building has become one of, if not my favorite in all of Paris and was the inspiration for the Phantom of the Opera with its underground caves. We saw Alcina, a story about an enchantress who lures men onto her island and then turns them into rocks and trees. This meant that the stage was full of men in all stages of dress (or not). I imagine the performance would have been good, had not the main male character been replaced with a female understudy! Not only was it difficult to distinguish which female was singing but it was a love story after all and you can picture some of the scenes. We still enjoyed it for the experience but the two couples in front of us began to make disapproving faces from the minute the curtains opened and left us an empty box for the last act! Judging by the 4 fur coats that lined the coat racks and the 160 Euro ticket stub they left on the seat, they could afford to be picky—they would probably return the next week. Needless to say, we were pretty excited about our luck.

We spent the holidays in Munich with the Junkers. Strange as it was not to be home in Boulder or Iowa for Christmas, we were happy with our snow-covered ground and amazing hosts. We arrived on Christmas Eve to be greeted by Sarah (her parents and brother spent a few days with family in north Germany before coming back before New Year’s). Heike had dressed the house to its best with lights, candles and a tree and had pre-prepared dinner for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the day after. When New Year’s Eve came along, they took us to a play and shared every Bavarian and German New Year’s tradition—you never knew there are so many things you HAVE to do on New Year’s! At midnight, I was in the city with Sarah while my mom stayed back home in the farm suburb with Heike and Heiner but we both had the same experience. Private fireworks are legal for the few days surrounding New Year’s and every house participated. Though I’m sure the smoke that covered the city for 15 afterward did nothing to help save the environment, it was truly spectacular.

My life for those few weeks seems very distant in that it was so different from the life that I have been living in Paris for the past 4 months. Finals week is two weeks away and I am right back into school mode with a presentation last Wednesday and a paper turned in this morning. After a lengthy class registration (including many e-mails, complaints and phone calls of course), my next semester will be much lighter and my most difficult semester will be behind me. Only 4 more weeks!

For now, I am back to the books but will be using my study breaks wisely—enjoying the working Paris scene. The city is no longer full of visitors, the winter winds have picked up, and the seasonal Soldes are in full swing. (The Soldes are nation wide sales lasting 6 weeks: this happens twice a year and is the only time that stores are allowed to discount below the prices at which they acquired their items). My French teacher was explaining this time of the year to us. Now that the tourists are gone, the Parisiens flock into the streets—shopping and dining with friends. Though the Fête de Rois (King’s Day) is officially on January 6th—12 days after Christmas, families will get together throughout the month of January to faire le gateau (eat the King’s Cake—whoever finds the bean inside has to buy the cake the next year) and celebrate the return to school and work. This is one thing I truly love about the French. Maybe they have too many holidays, but they enjoy every moment, every month, even cold January.

It hasn’t been easy getting back into my everyday routine. Paris has been a very different experience then what I originally engineered and the holiday break was a reminder of some of the simplicity of life back home. But Paris was never supposed to be easy. I have learned so much already and know that the next semester will be full of even more, though very different, experiences that I will remember forever. I can honestly say that I am not ready to go home and am glad I decided to come for the year. While many of my friends are preparing to go home in a month, I am happy knowing that I will get to see that other side of Paris still.