Street Musique

There has been a group of cellists and violinists around the corner of my house for a few days now playing everyday. If you know me at all you know that I like any song featuring a violin. Any song. So, yes, I was more than happy to stand and listen to them play as long as my feet would allow. 

Kish and I actually found another amazing band around the corner from us outside the Opera the other day. Mostly brass and percussion -- and would switch off between songs, so it seemed they all played both drums and a tuba or trumpet. Amazing. They had one of the largest street crowds I've ever seen. An older gentleman walked into the middle and started boogying down along to the tunes and he was not the only one. The band was making tons of cash. Not change. Cash. Consistent. Kish and I thought we might run to the Monoprix to buy some beers and sell them for a premium to the generous crowd but, being Sunday, we couldn't. We watched and enjoyed for a little over an hour.

Les Enfants

When I first arrived in Paris it was school holidays and there were kids everywhere I went. I thought it was because their parents didn't know what to do with them so they took them to the museums and attractions around town. 

I now realize it's not because it was school holidays that these kids were taken to the museum. Every time I've gone to a museum there have literally been at least four school groups at each -- including minor museums like The Orangerie Museum. And the kids are having fun. They're interested! They ask questions! I remember being dragged to a museum on a field trip maybe once a term and we used it as a chance to let out any excess energy that the teachers were only able to control in the classroom. The tour guides were hired as babysitters for the day. 

Here the kids are encouraged to absorb art and absorb culture. They learn that it can be exciting. Those parents (or, more likely, au-pairs and nannies) that take their children to museums during school breaks are just doing so because that's what the kids genuinely seem to enjoy. I wouldn't think it weird if I heard a kid in the second grade asking to go to Pompidou here. I've seen it here for the first time that six year olds are interested in art. Six year olds. In North America going to a museum or gallery is seen as a very bourgeois way to spend your time, here it is just a way that you do spend your time. 

Opera Garnier

Today my roommate Kish and I walked over to the Opera Garnier, home field of the Phantom himself, and decided on a guided tour. 

The building has impressed me every time I've walked to my local Monoprix, which is literally 2 blocks down from the Opera house, or a protest. I had planned on seeing an actual opera there, but... well, my plans changed over the past few weeks and the opera that was showing has closed. A new show starts 5 days after my departure. 

The guided tour was good but not what expected. I thought we'd be taken backstage and, perhaps much more hopefully, into the canals below the opera house. We were taken to neither but got to sit in orchestra level seats, which I guess makes up for it. Also worth the extra price of the tour guide was her accent. 

"Oh-pe-ra Ow-si" 

I tried to get her to say it as much as possible but she didn't need my help -- it was in every sentence Martinequerrette-Claire (no joke -- maybe mispelled, but no joke) said. And it brought me infinite joy. It makes me happy because I know the way the French look at me when I speak to them: "Oh. He's American." And here is a perfect example of someone butchering my mother tongue but I'm not mean. I encourage.

Anyhow, the opera house was great. The ceiling, painted by Chagall, is brilliant and worth the entire ticket price, show or not. It is either loved or hated in Paris -- some think it doesn't suit the classically designed building, others think it brings some light into an otherwise dark and moody hall. 

I may not have seen a show there but the building was show enough, I guess. 

Action Francaise: Part Deux, "Frenemies"

I made it inside into the heart of their lair! Success!

And found some interesting Art in their basement cave. Success?

 

I'm invited back on Monday for "Preparation de Manifestation" -- protest preparation.

Pudding of the Day

Today's pudding of the day was an Opera.

A dense chocolate mousse cake that I found a little too dense and a little too chocolaty. It was a bit of a disappointment because I expected fluffy. The biscuit layer saved it but not enough.

2/5

Get out of bed

So my trip was going the way I wanted until a (minor?) hiccup along the way. I came here to study with Jack Garfein and was doing so until all this happened and slowed me down.

Today I got a note from Jack that said the following:

Ricky, Kazan once wrote to me when I was sick: "Get out of bed, Jack. You belong at work." Same goes for you.

Jack with friend James Dean on the set of "Giant"

Pudding of the Day

Pudding of the Day: Meringue au Chocolat

Every night when one of my roommates, Becky, gets home we go to the local patisserie and each choose a dessert -- a term which Becky refuses to accept. After dinner we sit at the table and enjoy our "pudding" together, discussing whether we made the right choice or not and who made the better one. 

Tonight we both chose the same pudding: Meringue au Chocolat. It has easily made its way up my list of favourite desserts -- I mean puddings. 

5/5

Facebook: Doc Brown?

Oue es les toilettes, Galleries Lafayette?

Foxy and I were given a grand opportunity: a personal tour of Galleries Lafayette by, the very French, Sarah Acker. 

Now, Foxy is not a shopper but even she was impressed by the 7+ storied building with, what some say is, the best view of Paris. Unfortunately the view wasn't so great for us because it was gray, cloudy and wet. 

After strolling down through the floors (past our favourite, level 3: Seduction Wear) my stomach was a-grumblin'. We asked a lady who worked there where the toilets were. 

"Just around the corner."

Now imagine this with "Sandstorm" playing throughout.

There I was, running around the nearest corner. But the store is designed in a circular fashion. I saw her again.

"That corner." She pointed to the bathroom sign behind her. The bathroom was situated behind the change-room and the woman working the change-room was kind enough to tell me there was only a women's toilet on that floor. Time was running out. To the floor below I ran as I noticed the out-of-place, thumping techno musique soundtracking my search for relief.

I found the "Man Toilet"! Success!

Or not. Because I was smart enough to check each of the EIGHT stalls for toilet paper. All empty. I ran to the closest sales associate, sweating. 

"Please, where is there another men's toilet??" I asked, my voice shaking.

I was instructed down to the next "half floor" and before she could direct me I was off! Getting there, there was a sign that said:

DESOLE, HORS SERVICE

I was burning up. I threw my jacket over to Foxy and Sarah and ran ahead back to the top floor where the restaurants were knowing there had to be a working toilet there.

I had never seen a line for a men's toilet until then, so I used the disabled toilet without guilt -- knowing that, at the time, I was technically disabled having just had invasive lung surgery.

After that brilliant, whirlwind tour of the Galleries Lafayette, we made our way down to the lowest level -- the food section where I considered buying a few bottles of wine, but decided against it and chose to feed Africa instead. 

That's a tasty bottle of 18 000 euro wine.

Part 2: Insurance, je t'aime

Showcasing the latest French fashion: Le Drain

Arriving at Clinique Val d'Or, I quickly realized I would have to rely on my keen mime skills as none of the nurses spoke English -- that is until Nurse Karine, my eventual favourite, entered the picture and explained that she understood how scary it can all be, especially when I'm all alone but especially when no one speaks my language but especially when I had to be shaved as she was telling me all this -- for what, I did not know. 

The American Hospital had some trouble finding my veins or I'm a heroine addict. You decide.

My right and left armpits were shaved clean right before they took me into the OR to place a chest tube, or "drain" for you Francophones, in my chest. 

"It's okay. Soon you will find we are all crazy," Karine explained as she left to care for another patient, leaving me with two women who I proceeded to play charades with for fifteen minutes. Eventually one of them just pulled my underwear off for me because I wasn't getting her shitty charades version of taking of your undies. 

Everything went well, the drain was placed and I was ready to have my lung pumped up for me to go within two days the doctors and I expected. How wrong we all were.

After two days of charades and two more shavings, Dr. Jancovici -- one of the best thoracic doctors in France and Europe and one of the greatest people ever -- explained I had three options:

1) My lung was expanded 90%, good enough to leave the hospital as long as I came back for a check-up a week later. 

2) Have a second surgery on the lung to correct the problem fully and be in the hospital for at least another week following. 

3) Fly back home with the drain kept in, flying with a medical assistant to have the problem fixed at home with the doctors who have treated me before.

Of course my choice was to leave have the chest tube removed and leave the hospital the following morning. "Great," he said. As long as I promised to come back for my follow up appointment. We called my travel medical insurance provider to tell them the situation and the option I had chosen. 

"Alright, we'll follow up with you later on tonight," my case handler (who had been changed to the always pleasant Omar) told me. 

I called home and told Foxy and Lawrence not to worry, they really needed to stop worrying because it was all okay. Good thing they didn't fly out! Everyone was satisfied.

Little did we know Medex's medical advisor disagreed with two of the options given to me by France's highest regarded thoracic surgeon. I received a call within a few hours letting me know that Medex is glad to pay for my hospital stay but the moment I walked out of the building they would cease to cover me if anything lung-related happened again while in France. Not even the follow up appointment could be covered they said. 

Lawrence and I agreed: I was not to set foot out of Val d'Or until this was sorted out. 

My parents called Drs. Zelden and Simone in Toronto, who had previously treated me. They said I could reasonably fly back to Toronto with a medical assistant and they would treat me there. But they wanted to see my x-rays. 

Alright. I would call Medex and ask them to forward the doctors the x-rays for a third and forth opinion (in addition to that of Dr. Jancovici and Medex's mystery medical authority) because the x-ray facilities at my hospital were closed and the doctor had gone home. It was already late.

"What x-rays?" Omar and now another case handler, Gloria, wondered. They hadn't received any x-rays. Not one. 

"Alright, but your medical advisor -- can you ask them to forward the images to my doctors in Toronto?"

No, no, no. I was confused. Medex never saw x-rays. Not the case handler(s) and certainly not the medical advisor, who wanted me to have surgery in France without having spoken to me or seen my medical images before making a judgement call. But my lung was 90% expanded and it would go up the rest on its own. It had done it before, the last time I left hospital it was only 90% expanded and within a week was back to normal. I didn't want surgery. And I definitely did not want surgery where I didn't understand most of what was said to or discussed around me. 

Well we'll fly your mother out. My mother, the expert in French and thoracics, how could I forget! 

I was pushed into a corner. I could not leave the hospital. I could not fly home. I had to have surgery though I felt completely fine aside from the tube pressed inside my lung which could be removed the following morning if they let me. 

And so in Val d'Or I remained. We tried calling other doctors, whose opinions were similar to Dr. Jancovici's. We tried calling lawyers, who told me I was basically being forced to have surgery I felt uncomfortable having for a number of reasons. Nothing helped. Foxy was on the next flight out to Paris and arrived in time to see me wheeled out of recovery following my surgery. The following days were painful and frustrating -- but I would have taken that over the hair-pulling circles Medex was making my mind run in. 

At least Gloria called to check-up on me the other day. 

"Hi Ricky. I hope you're doing well. You have to e-mail us the date of your departure and the date of your follow-up visit with Dr. Jancovici. I'll e-mail you so you have our address."

"Okay, thanks. But will the x-ray I need be covered? Should I take my insurance information with or not bother?"

"I'll get back to you."

Well, Gloria e-mailed me. Lovely, friendly as usual. I e-mailed back but have yet to hear a response. I guess things got weird when we had that argument on the phone. I swear Glore -- it wasn't you. It's the system, baby. The system.

Foxy spent the four following days helping me recover in Paris and walking around with me everywhere, as per Dr. Jancovici's orders. It was a grand time. At least Medex got my mom out to see what I've been loving here. 

Thanks, Medex. I'll miss our daily pillow talk and your sweet, sympathetic and sensical nature. But, you know... we'll always have Paris.

C'est Dimanche

Note the rollerblader in a kilt.

Having been out of hospital recuperating since Friday, I've been showing as much of Paris to my visiting-to-bedside mother, Foxy T, as I can.

Today, being Sunday in Paris, everything is (of course) closed. We walked to the Marais where we grabbed some tasty shawarma and then started on a leisurely stroll toward Notre Dame. Along the way, on one of Paris' main streets, Rue du Rivoli we noticed police on rollerblades beginning to block traffic and a crowd of at least 200 people at the cross street waiting. For what, we did not know.

As we got closer we realized that the crowd that looked like a small protest group were actually all, also, on rollerblades. Perplexed, a police officer had to be approached:

- Excuse me, what's going on?

- I'm sorry?

- Why is the street closing? Are they rollerblading for charity?

- No.

- So...

- C'est dimanche.

It's Sunday. Oh. They just wanted to. 

Having effectively blockaded the road, the crowd was given the go ahead. And, so, that was Sunday.

To clarify: because there is little else to do in Paris on Sundays, a bunch of people on rollerblades banded together with like-minded officers of the law to close off a main thoroughfare so they could go rollerblading because they wanted to because it was Sunday. The police just blocked off traffic, without prior notice, and allowed a crowd of 200 plus to begin rollerblading down Rivoli. It was funny. But the drivers that were blocked off didn't think so. The police officers just bladed off into with crowd. 

C'est dimanche!

Part 1: I Should Take the Lottery

After having three lung collapses and two surgeries, one on each lung, to correct the issue, I had a 2% of ever having a collapsed lung again -- basically the same as any male my age that is not obese.

Well I won!

On Tuesday, January 27 I woke up normally, ready to go to class. I had been feeling a little under the weather a few days before but it had passed. After brushing my teeth my chest felt a little funny, sometimes I get that as a side-effect from the two surgeries. I ignored it and kept going. I rushed out the house and closed the door behind me. 

I knew what was wrong by that point. It had happened, I just didn't really want to have to deal with it. Trying to calm myself down a bit before class, I walked to my favourite patisserie and grabbed an almond croissant. 

It couldn't wait. I walked back to my house because, while biting into that croissant, I literally felt my lung crunch again like it had three times before. Each step I took, I took a little more carefully. Getting to my room, I looked up the American Hospital of Paris -- knowing that they would speak English there. But first I had to call my insurance to get it approved. Luckily my case handler, the lovely Maria, approved it and there I was, off with my Google map to the American Hospital. 

I slid myself very slowly over to the closest metro station and got the closest stop. I was lost. I don't speak French. This was not central Paris. Seeing a pharmacy, I walked in and asked for directions. I got them (in French) and an estimated walk time: quarante minute. 

4 minutes, not bad.

No. Quarante, the pharmacist replied and she wrote out a big 

40

Merde. I (sort of) ran out, literally feeling my lung flop and the air crunching it smaller and smaller, pushing my heart over to the middle of my chest, with each step. Jumped into a taxi and got there. I had literally just enough in my wallet for the cab ride: 7 euro, 80 cents.

After registering, the ER doctor confirmed what I already knew: my lung had collapsed again. He hadn't seen an x-ray but thought it couldn't be very big considering I was still walking and talking normally (and he didn't even see my metro trek!). The x-rays arrived and my lung was almost fully collapsed. 

There were no beds at the English speaking American Hospital, so I was transfered to a small, private hospital just outside of Paris under the care of Dr. Rene Jancovici: Clinique Val d'Or.

And so concludes Part 1. Stay tuned for more!

Will Ricky survive at an all-French hospital outside of Paris? Will his insurance company drive him wild with rage? Will he be referred to only as "L'Americain" by all hospital staff? 

This and more... next time.

Lungs of Dollar Store Seran Wrap

Alas, it has happened again.

More to come. Thus the reason for the lack of blog.

xoxo
Gossip Girl

Croissant Amandes

At least two. Every day. Before class. After class. And one after dinner if I'm really happy with myself for the day (if you know me at all, I'm happy with myself a lot).

Action Francaise

Across the road from our house is an office which is rarely open during daytime hours, but as night falls the gates in front of the storefront's windows rise. This is Action Francaise.

One evening, my roommate, Fern and I were walking to the local grocery store but were stopped by a few people our age. Fern speaks fluent French so she was laughing, talk and translating back and forth. These people were really, really nice! They said we should definitely come by their next party. I was up for it. Their spread of food looked awesome and they were so welcoming even though I couldn't speak much French. They even told us to join them where they were headed for the night.

As we said our goodbyes and continued onto the supermarket, Fern explained that this was the youth branch of a political movement called Action Francaise and we wouldn't be joining them later at their "party".

"Oh, well they were great anyway!"

"Yeah... they were the ones that welcomed Hitler when they invaded France."

"But they had such nice food..."

I watch them from my window at night. They're up to something. I don't know what. But there are lots and lots of flattened boxes in the middle of their office. 

I think they've changed. I'll go to their next party. I'll know when it is... because I'm watching you, Action Francaise!

One of Action Francaise's "Parties"

By the way, while talking to them they were telling me they mostly stand for reinstating the French monarchy. Mostly. Plus they hate Sarkozy. And sort of democracy (or demoCRAZY, as they termed it).

P.S. Action Francaise, if you are reading this: this is not the delightful Canadian you know from across the street. Please do not firebomb my house. I mean his house. Don't firebomb his house.

Ratatouille, the food not the movie

The real deal for dinner last night at Cafe Louise. Very good. They ran out of chocolate cake though. She said to come back today to try some.

Conversation (translated):

RICKY

I'll have the ratatouille with poached eggs, please.

LOUISE

Anything to drink?

RICKY

Just a Perrier.

Later...

RICKY

Thank you, thank you. What kind of cheese is this?

LOUISE

Poached egg.

Anti-American Sentiment?

America's love affair with their new commander-in-chief has spread across the globe. Over the past few weeks I've noticed more and more French magazine covers, political and otherwise, with Obama and his wife Michelle featured on them. I have even seen a few of the iconic CHANGE campaign signs on a few walls here and there. 

Yesterday my friend Sarah and I tried to get into an American restaurant here, Breakfast in America, to watch the inauguration but couldn't get a seat and no standing room was allowed. We watched outside with a crowd on a tiny television with no sound for a while and decided to run over to the Canadian pub to watch. The pub, just like the country it represents, was big and empty with a few scattered people. We sat down just in time to watch Aretha Franklin perform and Joe Biden get sworn in. 

As Obama took the oath of office, the excitement in the pub was palpable -- even though I'm pretty sure a good portion of the small crowd there was not American, they, like the American public that elected him to the highest office in the world, are looking for a shift in the world atmosphere. Paris is a very political city, people are passionate about government and their effect on it -- I think it is a legacy of countries whose governments were formed by revolution. Americans and the French both know what they did to change the course of their history, whereas countries like Canada sort of amble along without the fire felt inside bellies filled with cheeseburgers and foie-grois across the globe. 

This past Friday evening and Saturday afternoon, I was invited for meals at Rabbis Bloom and Asseraf of Chabad of Paris -- both delicious meals in taste and spirit. On Saturday afternoon at Rabbi Asseraf's we heard the yells and chants of a crowd. This was another planned protest against Israel's defensive attacks on Hamas in Gaza. The Rabbi moved to close the window because he said the chants were turning nasty. 

I left the Asserafs' home and began walking back toward my house. My walk happened to run parallel to the protest route. I have never seen a crowd so angry in all my life, so filled with rage. As they moved through the police-lined streets, the crowd smashed the windows of the McDonald's around the corner from my house (I guess anti-American sentiment had to come in somewhere). The protest effectively jammed the streets of Paris as the wails of sirens could be heard anywhere you were and the site of riot-geared police on the streets was not unusual.

I saw a child, who couldn't have been much older than four-years-old, wearing an "I love Palestine" shirt which I thought was about the nicest message of the day. Completely unlike the man who appeared to be his father who was holding a sign with a Star of David crossed out. The two messages couldn't have a more different tone, one expressing love for the land they struggle for and one condemning the land's neighbours with hate. If only the father, and other protestors like him, expressed what his son's shirt said maybe the protest wouldn't have turned so nasty. Maybe there wouldn't be a need for protest if there wasn't such blind hate. I wish I saw more "I love Palestine" shirts or signs, but they were few and far between other, more threatening, ones. 

The people in the pub last night all heard the sirens run through the city all day on Saturday, there's no way they couldn't have. I think those CHANGE signs across Paris, those magazine covers at all press stands are a call for action against hate. As much as the French and Americans like to talk about how much they don't like one another, there's a respect for similar history. They have fought for the countries they love, for the governments they elect every few years and now, in the midst of world crisis a plenty, the two countries are calling for a change across the globe. Let's hope President Obama can help bring along that change. And maybe make Canadians more passionate about their position as citizens because a Facebook group doesn't count as passion or protest -- but one step at a time. I know.

And now for something completely different

Enjoy! I know I did/am.

New Years with the Bourgeois of Paris

We went to Alan's brother's friend's flat in Montmartre where we were the youngest people -- but definitely not the coolest. There were artists (a lady that was currently exhibiting in both Berlin and Madrid), filmmakers (people who worked on Amelie, because that was my only point of reference French film I could think of), chefs (sous-chef to Chef Ramsay) and other assorted artistes. The sous-chef to Ramsay made me try a dessert he concocted:

A layering of blue cheese, dried apricot and a single grape. I don't think he was happy when I gagged and said I had to spit it out. I don't think the host was happy that I ran to the kitchen and spit out food in her garbage. She asked if I was American. But that "dessert" was no dessert. It was sous-chef trickery!

We found there was free champagne aplenty and I became the substitute DJ because a 30+ English lady said the music was terrible and I looked like I would choose some good stuff.

Boy, did she know me or what? I had everyone doing the Cotton-Eye Joe right through till 4 in the morning. 

Winter Descends, Parisians Confused

Over the past few weeks Paris was blanketed with snow and scattered with bits of icy sidewalks and streets. Even their planned skating rinks were open (and stayed open)! Unprepared for the weather, Paris seemed frozen (1 point) in a state of shock about the weather. 

The Eiffel Tower had to close due to "extreme" weather, such as that seen here:

They didn't think to shut off fountains:

The statues looked mighty cold:

Parisians could no longer run from their alcoholism, the owner of this bottle must have had some sort of religious awakening when his wine bottle seemed to walk on water the night prior:

And these poor birds had no clue what to do:

But whoever said the French give up too easily never saw Luxembourg Gardens after the snow. Parisians everywhere, enjoying their confusion. Kids playing soccer in the snow; Children and parents stuffing snow down each other's clothes; People reading by the now-invisible pools. 

It was the first time I actually saw a good chunk of the French population enjoying their city, taking part in the experience of it all. Having the snow here allowed them to rediscover it anew and the city seemed to have a different, warmer feeling despite the freezing temperature. 

But, alas, it had to end. 

This morning I woke up to the sound of rain. By the time I stepped out, the mild weather and overnight downpour had washed away all the white stuff that seemed to add so much to the experience here. Maybe the sign over the city from the big guy in the sky meant, 'if you're good I'll do it again some time.' Paris will have to wait and see. 

Versailles

Versailles was extra special for two reasons:

1) There was a Jeff Koons exhibition going on. 

Jeff Koons is a neo-pop artist that has become well known for his over-sized balloon and blow-up inspired sculptures. At the Versailles retrospective of his work, there were pieces from the 80s:

and more recent pieces:

It was interesting to see Koons' work, often described as kitschy, alongside some of the most decadent architecture and design. In a way, I think Marie-Antoinette would have appreciated the art and its placement very much. 

2) There was snow on the ground.

As I said, snow has rarely stayed on the ground for more than a few hours in Paris and its surrounding regions, so to see Versailles covered in snow was a sight to be seen and experienced. 

It was the most impressive site I've been to while in Paris.