Accident Grave De Voyageur

Hello everyone--terribly sorry for going SO long without writing a blogpost.  I just couldn't muster up enough...energy?  No, not energy, cus I have a lot of energy to write, but...maybe inspiration.  I just couldn't muster up enough inspiration to sit down and write a truly interesting blogpost because life in Paris, as great and wonderful and amazing as it is, it's normal life.  I haven't really done anything that required a blog entry.  Therefore, almost, what, 3 full months have elapsed since my last blog.  FINALLY!  Finally I can write something for you.  Something worthy of my blog and proof that my life is more interesting than you all may think.

It all started today when Yasna and I decided to go to the 13th arrondissement for some Asian cuisine.  We've recently become sort of obsessed with the 13th after we went to this awesome amazing spectacular grocery store with Hossein, the coolest guy ever, and everything was like no more than 5 euros.  I mean, mangoes which are usually like 2 euro 60 for one piece, were like 4 for 1 euro!!  Anyway, fun fact, I used to live there.  Yeah, my apartment was RIGHT in the middle of all of this hooplah but I find that I never appreciated what I had until now, when I live somewhat far away from the area, and yet tend to go there at least once a week.  Oh...also, to be fair, everything in Paris is closed on Sundays, especially when tomorrow is Easter and EVERYTHING and their mother will be closed, the 13th remains open quand même.

So we decided to go there, and we did.  We wanted to go have pho, but then we found this awesome Thai restaurant and Yasna's been craving papaya salad for like 4 weeks since one day we walked past a papaya or something.  So we had Thai food, and then we left and it was like, 10:30 when we left the restaurant?  Something like that.  Time matters here though.
At around 10:45-10:50, we got onto the metro, and I thought "oh good ok, we don't have to worry about missing the metro or anything, there is still plenty of time, even if we have to switch."  Because on sundays and any day except for friday and saturday the metro closes at midnight.  So, we got on the train and went about two stops, when all of a sudden in between two of the stations the train just stops.

Now, this isn't cause for worry since it always happens due to circulation or what not.  Nothing to worry about.  But this time, we were sitting in the metro for like 30 minutes and every two minutes the train conductor would address everyone on the train by saying it would take a couple more minutes before he would have any information.
Then in one of the messages he said there was an "accident grave de voyageur" which means...well its pretty self explanatory, right?  But he didn't say more.
Then, like 5 minutes later, he got on, told us again about the accident grave, and said the trains would have to stop and they were stopping all of the trains on line 7 and that all of the passengers would have to be evacuated from the train.  And of course, my heart was just beating so fast the entire time because I get so nervous during any situation like this.
This man came in and put this dinky winky ladder from the train door to the train floor like by the tracks, and we all had to walk down and walk through the tunnel of the metro to the station behind us.  And the entire time there were only two things on my mind
1. What if I step on a rat?  What if a rat climbs over my foot?  What if a rat bites me?  What if I stumble across an entire group of rats?
2. I wonder if the person is dead.  I wonder what happened to him/her.  I wonder if it was one of those German tourists who missed their stop and had to run to the other side to catch a train.  I wonder if we'll see anything.

But once we got to the station, all we saw was about 30 pompiers (EMTs) around someone on a stretcher, but the security on the metro made us keep moving up the stairs so we weren't able to see more.  Even though I kept stopping to look but the woman was like, "Mesdames s'il vous plait...."  so we kept walking up the stairs.

And then we were like, welllllll shooooot!  We definitely wont be able to catch the metro, so what should we do?  Go to Chatelet (the center basically) to catch the night bus?  Ok sure, why not?  So we got onto the bus to take us to Chatelet and it was PACKED, like literally we were sardines!  And everyone was just sweating because randomly its just summer here.  And OF COURSE we end up standing next to these two Egyptian guys who start talking to Yasna and she's being like nice but you know, trying to avoid talking with them, but then one of them asked for Yasna's number and she was like, "nooo I don't think so."  And then the guy was like, "well my friend here loves your friend."  And everything was just really awkward and I just wanted to get off the bus because I get super uncomfortable in those sorts of situations.
And even once we got off the bus they got off too and he just kept asking for my number and I kept saying, "non, mais c'est gentille."  and slowly inching my way behind Yasna and like pushing her towards them without thinking I was doing that.  And finally they gave up and walked away.

BUT he did tell us that the "accident grave" was that this man's shirt got stuck in the metro door and he didn't have time to get on and the train just STARTED and he was just stuck!!!!!!!!!

So then we were just in Chatelet and the night bus wouldn't leave until one o'clock.  So we had an hour and we thought we would walk around, sit down somewhere, and pass some time.  And we ended up sitting next to this Italian girl (Eva)  and an Australian girl (Kristen) who were really nice, and we sat on the stoop with Kristen for like 2 hours until these three men came and AGAIN started talking to us and I was like, really?  again?  But then one of them was like, "do you want some champagne?"  And I was like, "No."
And Yasna and Kristen were just having their own conversation so I was left to talk to them.  And they kept asking me if I wanted champagne and I kept saying "no thank you." But then randomly one of them took out this remote control and opened up the gate to the store across the street (because he owned it?)  and going inside and getting a bottle of champagne and a bottle of coke (for me since I didn't want champagne?  I mean...I just thought I could get out of the situation by saying I didn't want to drink).  But they just kept talking and we kept laughing nervously and looking at each other like, "please lets get up right now."

Then we took the night bus home and now it's 4 oclock in the morning and we just got home like 15 minutes ago and for some ODD reason while I'm typing this Yasna is listening to Edgar Allen Poe poems on youtube and sketching.  A girl of many interests...

I think I'm going to sleep soon, only I really want to take a shower because I just keep thinking about walking alongside the metro walls and who knows whats happened there?  Also, the entire time I was glad that it was Yasna with me and not some random person or someone I wasn't very close with because I think I asked about a million questions afterwards and she answered each of them without getting irritated.  So that was nice.

Only now Im still thinking about the poor person getting stuck on the metro and I just feel so bad.  Poor guy/girl.  I hope he/she's ok.

Ranna is Incompetent

So.  Totalllyyyyy new experience for me just now.  I was taking a shower and all of a sudden the lights went out!  And at first I thought, shoot, the lightbulb burnt out or something.  So I took my shower in the dark and I walked out, and I couldn't turn any of the lights on.  And I freaked out because this happened before to Yasna before I came, and she didn't have electricity in the apartment for like a week.  So I called Yasna and I was  like, "uhhh, I was just taking a shower and all of a sudden the electricity went out!!"
And Yasna went "Well can you go downstairs and see if the hallway light turns on?"
And I couldn't because I had just come out of the shower and I was naked, but I asked "if the light in the hallway doesn't come on, what am I supposed to do? "
And she was like, "You have to call them."
"Who, Yasna?"
"The electricity company."
So I hung up the phone, got dressed, and went outside to check the light.  And in my head I was thinking, "pleaseeeeeee!  please light!  don't work so it's not just our apartment!"  But of course, the light turned on.
Just then, Yasna called me on Skype and was like, "well what happened?"
"It's our apartment."
"Shit, are you serious?"
"What do I do?"
"Go check the box."
"What box?  The thing that spins that you always check?"
"No, Ran, the fuse box in the apartment!"
And then I had a momentary freak out and was like, "YASNA, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THINGS LIKE THIS!!!"
And she was like, "Ran, when you go up the stairs, there is a box, go check if all of the switches look the same."
So I go and check and to me, all of the switches look the same.  So I tell her.  And she was like, "even the one at the top?"
AND THANK GOD IT WAS FLIPPED DOWN!!!  Because otherwise I couldn't know what I was supposed to do.  I mean, granted, Yasna said SHE would call the electricity company, but still.  I was scared I would be stuck at home, and it's getting dark, AND I was in the middle of doing a load of laundry so the entire time I was thinking, shoot, now all of my laundry is going to smell.
But apparently (Yasna says) since I was taking a shower, and doing laundry, and the chauffage had been on...wait...chauffage?  How do you say chauffage in English?  The heaters?  The heaters had been on for a while, I was just taking up to much electricity.  So now, I'm sort of paranoid and I've turned off all the chauffages and I'm sitting in the dark until the laundry load finishes.
Thank God Yasna was around because otherwise seriously SERIOUSLY literally I wouldn't know what to do and I would pack a bag and go to Sara's house until Yasna came home.

The end.

When you know the notes to sing, you can sing most everything

Where to start... where to start?  I guess I'll start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.  When you read you begin with A. B. C.  When you sing you begin with Do Re Mi.  Do Re Mi.  The first three notes just happen to be Do Re Mi.  Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti......oh dear, let's see if I can make this easier...

Do a deer a female deer 

Re a drop of golden sunnnn

Mi a name I call myself

Fa a long long way to runnnnnnnnn

So a needle pulling thread 

La a note to follow sooooo

Ti a drink with jam and bread 

That will bring us back to Do Do Do Do DO. 

Honestly, once I started it was hard to stop.  I wanted to mostly prove to myself that I knew all the lyrics.  Sound of Music, waddup. 

Ok, but seriously.  I've been in Paris for about three weeks now and it's just now that I'm picking up my parchment and quill to write this entry?  Yes.  Well, I apologize to all of my avid fans (que: look of exasperation from those who think I'm being too full of myself) who have been waiting patiently for me to write a blog about being back in Paris. 

Paris.  Paris, France.  I can't believe that I'm back.  I can't believe that I'm actually back.  The idea of coming back, it was something that was always in my head since I left, but part of me was always hesitant to confidently believe that it would happen.  I'm sitting here now, on the couch, in this apartment, and part of me feels like I never left.

That's the biggest difference I think.  Last time, everything was so new and exciting and wonderfully different from anything that I had ever experienced.  I was the young and naive college student in France for her study abroad.  Every instant I would experience new feelings, sights, smells, sounds, that were so foreign.  This time, it has been so easy to get adjusted. 

To me, Paris has the element of "home."  When I'm here, I feel like I'm back to where I first created my own life, created my own community.  I don't feel separated from the people in the streets, I don't feel like a tourist, I don't feel like a student studying abroad.  I feel home.  

I'm so happy.  I'm so incredibly happy.  Just the other night, I was sitting in the metro, and I think I had to change metro lines like 3 times and at first, I was like, "mannnnn what the hell??? This is going to take so long!  I'm going to be in the metro forever!"  But then, I had to step back and say, "wait a second!  I'm in Paris taking the metro!  Why am I complaining?"  And I swear it made everything so much better.  It's as simple as saying "Ran, you're in Paris!"  And everything that might potentially irk me, just doesn't.  It's great.  I'm just floating.  I'm floating.  

And also, at this particular moment I'm really proud of myself because last night I went to Marion's house, and she invited some of her friends over, and I spoke French almost the entire night!  I really loved it.  I want to put myself back in situations like that where I'm forced to speak French, because honestly, I speak pretty well if I do say so myself.  So I'm sort of elated at the moment.  

I don't know.  Everything is really great.  I haven't really haven't had certain and specific experiences to write about as one blog post, but overall it's been a really good three weeks.  I'm really looking forward to everything that is to come.  

Love, Ran. 

So long, farewell.

It's sad really.  I never officially signed off from this blog.  Everything moved so quickly, and the next thing I knew I was standing at Dulles International Airport, bags in hand, ready to go back "home."  And there I have stayed for the last month, taking classes at George Mason, working at a laser clinic, driving a car, acting as though the last year never even existed.  Yeah...acting.  Let me tell you something, there is not one minute of the day when my mind isn't focused on Paris, when I'm not thinking about something that happened, someone I met, something I ate, smelled, touched...memories drown out the images around me and I am left in a dreamlike euphoria.  I can close my eyes...and mmmmmm....I am sitting in my apartment, the window is open and the heating is on... the smell...the smell of the chauffage...Marion is standing just outside the door smoking a cigarette...Yasna's on my bed checking her email...we've just finished eating our doner kabobs...should we go out?  the moose?  aaaahhh the moose. 

What was it that...that has cast a spell on me?  I don't even know. 

In any case, tonight I was looking through my old journals...and I mean OLD, but I came across the one I had just before I went to Paris.  I had cut out this article, stuck it in between the pages, and forgotten about it.  But I wanted to share it with you guys, just as a final hoorah!  One final blog entry on rannaisinfrance.blogspot.com...i mean...until rannaisinfranceagain.blogspot.com starts up.... :) So here it is: 

In Pursuit of Happiness by Holly Brubach 

"I was 34 and lovelorn.  Other people, under similar circumstances, turn to midnight snacks, old movies, psychoanalysis, tequila.  I moved to Paris.

My hopes, to the extent that I had one, was that the mere act of going through the motions in another city, in another language, would turn out to be such a project that it would distract me from my misery.  Amazingly, this proved to be true.  Every errand, however mundane, required a new vocabulary, world I had never come across in Moliere or Baudelaire: tournevis, crochet, marteau for a trip to the hardware store; tache, doublure, before heading off to the dry cleaner. 

But the truth is, paris also took my mind off my troubles in ways that I hadn't foreseen.  Everywhere I looked, there was something urging me to pay attention: a taste, a smell, some subtle flourish that a person trudging through life preoccupied with her own small problems might otherwise miss. 

That summer, I sat in my first apartment, a seven-story walkup half a block from the Seine, and i listened through open windows to the chamber-music concerts across the street a the Musée de la Monnaie, with Mozart's ripe harmonies carried upward on the dense, warm air.  Going on midnight, the noise of the traffic was interrupted by lurching, bleating oom-pah-pah renditions of popular standards as the Fanfare des Beaux-Arts, a marching band made up of students from the nearby school of architecture, snaked its way through the narrow streets, its gusto fueled by wine. 

Shopping for groceries, I brought home fraises des bois, plump figs from Turkey, and yogurt made from goat's milk.  At the bakery on the corner, I discovered congolais--haystacks of pure, intense coconut.  In the Luxembourg Gardens, where I went to run, children sailed their boats in the fountain.  When October arrived, I found myself trailing golf carts with a cargo of citrus trees in their jardinieres, bound for the Orangerie, where they would sit out the winter; jouncing along the dirt paths, they waved their branches, like stiff arms, in valediction. 

My middle class, middle-American parents had instilled in the the values their parents had instilled in them: honesty, diligence, discipline, thrift, and a particularly Calvinist delight in the virtues of self-denial.  All of which, with the sad exception of thrift, had taken root in my soul.  We went to church.  We played golf.  We drank iced tea.  The goal was to get ahead.  Work was every upstanding person's reason for being, and pleasure and leisure were the rewards for a job well done.  The only possible conclusion to be drawn from this austere outlook on human nature seemed to be that a self was not to be trusted, a self was to be constantly policed and held back. 

An A student, workaholic, a chronic dieter locked in a lifelong battle against five extra pounds.  I gradually loosened my iron grip, with the French as my example.  I envied them their capacity for moderation, a skill that had always eluded me, and realized for the first time that pleasure makes moderation possible.  I began building little treats into my day; 20 minutes with a book in the Tuileries on the way to an appointment; a late-night glass of Champagne at a cafe; Poilanes walnut bread for breakfast. 

In my family, flowers were considered a reckless indulgence, unless they came from the garden or if it was Mother's Day.  But in Paris, I met a man whose policy was that no vase should ever go empty.  He took to showing up at my door on Friday afternoons, his arms full of roses--an astonishing array of varieties and colors, some with poetic names like Cuisse de Nymphe, the pale pink-beige that evoked the unexposed skin of a maiden's thigh.  On Saturday mornings, I awake to the smell of roses before I opened my eyes. 

Paris is surely the biggest, and to my mind the best, pleasure palace ever built.  I've heard it said, by other Americans, that their idea of paradise would be Paris without the French.  What this fantasy fails to take into account is that Paris IS the French.  If it's hard for us to grasp this, if we tend to view cities as stage sets animated by people who just happen to live there at the time, perhaps its because no single city is the outward expression of our intermost convictions and the workings of our minds: not Washington DC, not New York, not Los Angeles, not Boston, Miami, Chicago, San Francisco.  Paris is the produce of a centuries-long collective endeavor--a society's accumulated wisdom on the subject of civilization, put into practice.  

It was the French who alerted me to the fact that pleasure is both something to be discovered, there for the taking, and something to be cultivated through my own efforts.  Its pursuit, as it turns out, is not a mindless slide into debauchery but a science, rigorous and exacting, discriminating between the merely good and the sublime.  The thing about pleasure is that it immerses you in the moment.  The present becomes more compelling than the future of the past.  There is no better cure for heartache.  

Had I been as happy in Paris as I recall?  Thinking back on my life there, I have to remind myself that there were long weeks in February when the heat in my apartment was no match for the damp chill; that there were times when disappointment or failure of frustration dominated my thoughts, as it would have anywhere; that there were occasions when I felt as if I didn't belong.  I have to remind myself because those arent the things that I remember.  What I remember is walking home from a wonderful dinner at the apartment of some friends: It's two in the morning, my footsteps reverberate off the walls of the buildings that flank the winding Rue de Babylone.  The moon is full, and except for the gendarme on the corner, the street is all mine.  

I lived in Paris for six years and held on to my apartment for seven more, until the building was sold.  I cried the day I left, not dignified, silent tears, but embarrassing, heavy sobs.  The movers came for my furniture and put it into storage--an absurd extravagance, necessary at the time, since the only way I could bear to leave was by telling myself that someday I would again live in Paris.  And I still believe that someday I will.

Just recently, a friend asked me how, having lived there, I could ever be happy living anywhere else.  But that's not the lesson that I came away with.  It's no exaggeration to say that Paris restored me to my senses.  But it also gave me something more.  Because in the course of learning to love the city and its inhabitants, I learned to savor the texture of my everyday life, not only there, but anywhere." 

And with this article in mind, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for reading my entries through these months, and I bid you a gracious adieu.  

La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure

Marion Raison, mon amour, ma vie, mon coeur, mon âme, je t'aime azizam. 

look at the pictures while listening to this::

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Qx2lMaMsl8

Ameno

Salma's so annoyed at me right now because I keep listening to this song. 

its good!  i have faint recollections of mr. rene playing this when we were younger when he cleaned the garage in Colorado...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SvxaNQ6d7M

take it easy, love nothing.

so basically heres the deal.  im sitting here i just realized that the reason why my house smells is because sally has been putting trash into the trash can (that I never use) without telling me or without taking the trash out.  SO, there's trash in the trash can from god knows when, and i've been wondering why my house smells like, excuse my french, shit, and now I know.  because apparently my sister is the idiot who doesnt take the trash out.  

i mean, i wonder if she even thought about it when she was putting trash into it, like, "hmmm. should i take the trash out?  i put that sorbet container into there a while ago.  is this sanitary?  it looks questionable to me."  

good job, sally.  the trash can has got to go bye bye.  

also, just now I saw a moth fly into my house, and i was like, oh jeez, now i have to get up and kill it but I just sat there and watched it fly into ceiling light.  then i heard a few zap snap baps, and wouldn't you know it, smoke started to rise up and then stop.  that moth had to go bye bye.  

the point of this blogpost was not intended for such purposes as talking about the trash or the moth.  actually, i had a clear cut intention for this post.  i was going to come, see and conquer.  i guess i'll just start now.  then i'm going to have to go bye bye.  im so tired tonight, jeez.

Today I was meeting Marion at Place Monge to have lunch, and I got there super early for some reason.  SUPER EARLY.  But right when I stepped out of the metro, I noticed that there were wayyy too many people around there for it to be a normal day, and all of those people were coincidentally walking in the direction of the mosque.  So Ranna's curiosity blinker went off.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  Hmmm...I wonder what's going on?  As I started to walk towards the mosque I noticed police vans lining the smaller streets.  My heart started racing, "cool," i thought, "something really exciting is going on!"  

The outside of the mosque was crowded with groups of people standing and talking.  Around the area, journalists were standing with their cameras, smoking cigarettes, checking their portables, waiting for something to happen.  They looked bored.  Police were standing there on guard, with their shields and batons at the ready.  

If you ask me, they just like waving those things around...

Every so often, a man wearing a swanky suit, mixed deep within the crowd, would have an orange armband with black text, "SÉCURITÉ."  Security?  Police?  Reporters?  Yessss, I really hit the jackpot this time.

I took out my camera and started to take pictures of nothing in particular (i'll upload some right as soon as I empty some files into my hard drive to create some more memory on my computer.  I thought Macs weren't supposed to have this problem).  I mean, I didn't even know what was going on to have a purpose with my pictures.  All of a sudden this pimply, too skinny for his own good, punk came up to me, right up to me, too close for comfort if you really want to know my opinion, and said, "hey, hey, vous etes une journaliste?"  

No, no.  Not a journalist.  And then I started to completely lie to him for some reason.  I made up this elaborate story that I don't really feel like repeating since it was just...haha, lets just say, I have absolutely no idea why I couldn't have been like, no I'm a tourist.  

And then "Mr. I think I'm way more important than I actually am," was like, "ok, ok" and walked away.  

He went back to his friends who asked him if I was a journalist and when he shook his head they asked why I was taking pictures, and he was like, haha, "I don't know, I stopped listening." 

hahaha, I laughed.

Finally, I grew a pair and asked the people nearest to where I was standing what was going on.  I chose the wrong crowd.  Our conversation went as follows (in translation): 

Ranna: Do you guys know what's going on here?

Arab guy #1: Hey, where are you from? 

Ranna: the US.  What's going on here? 

Arab guy #1: Ohhhh Obama! Yassine, come here, she's American. 

Yassine: Hey, cool, you're American!  Obama! 

Ranna:  So, what's going on here?

Yassine: The police hate the Arabs. 

Ranna: No.  Why are the police even here?  What's going on at the mosque?

Arab guy # 1: We're just praying. 

Ranna: It's not like this every friday. 

Yassine: Hey, Faudel, come here, this girls American.  Yeah, it's not like this every friday, but today is a special prayer. 

Ranna: So why is there so much security? 

Yassine:  There are people here who don't like each other.

Ranna: What do you mean?  Who?  

Yassine: Different groups.  Hey, what's your name?  

Ranna: It's not important, which groups? 

Faudel: Don't tell her anything until she tells you her name.  

Ranna: OK.  Thanks guys, see you later.  

Yassine: No no.  The Algerians and the Moroccans.  

Ranna: The Algerians and the Morccans don't like each other?  Since when??? 

Faudel: We're not telling you anymore.  Whats you name?

Ranna: Salma.  Since when? 

Faudel: Salma?  How old are you?  

Ranna:  Why is this important?  Since when?

And then....I guess while we were having this delightful conversation, this news correspondent was reporting on the situation and saying things that didn't tend well with the people around him.  So, out of the blue, people start yelling at each other and screaming at the reporter, who is just standing there like, "what just happened?"  And in the middle of it all, one of the old homeless women who stands in front of the mosque begging usually, stood up and started yelling at the reporter too.  It was probably one of the funniest things I've ever seen.  So, the men pushed the reporter out of town while the police stood there, picked their noses and looked on.  

I took that chance to escape my enlightened group of boys, and went up to this older man standing there and asked him what was going on. 

Well, apparently, the head of the mosque right now is a Moroccan man, BUT, this mosque is state-run and state-sponsored, so the government is replacing him with a new man, however, this one happens to be Algerian.  And it's causing a lot of problems, because the Moroccans want a Moroccan to stay in power, while the Algerians want one of their own.  

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was what was going on. 

So, let me get this straight.  These muslims, not only do they fight between their different sects, when it comes down to it, it becomes a cultural struggle as well?  Let me get this straight, these Arabs that come into France, not only are they barred from their French community, but they have created hostile communities between each other as well?  Let me get this straight, ya'll are standing here fighting because the head of the mosque is changing?  What happened to your "God?"  Isn't he really the head of it all?  Where does he fit in, in this little game you're playing?  

Shoot, they just can't seem to get it right, can they?  

Baba, take it eassyyy.