You Own Me, Lucky You.

One quarter down from the first third of my very own life changing experience, one of the first slightly sour evenings, thus a sudden urge to write down the things I've learned and/or experienced so far.

Firstly about Paris, France and the French. No stereotype setting intended, but simply a biased subjective summary of the stuff I had the fortune/misfortune to go through. The first impressions, expressed here, obviously remain valid.

The almighty cornerstone, which unfortunately sets the pace and mood for each and every of my days here: the language. While pleasant for the ear, it's painful to be learnt. And how naive should an expat be to even hope of fast becoming articulate and having a dreamy accent accompanying an incredibly fast-paced discourse?  So yes, here, they speak a lot, and fast, and loud, both to the point and beating around the bush. And no, having studied French for a decade and a half does not help much, it all resets when speaking to a native. And no, if they have the French option open, they will not speak to you in another language.

The food. Is still great, and I say this after having tried several traditional dishes and also international food cooked their way. Sweets are unbelievable, probably a reasonable explanation for the tons of weight I've put on. But then again, how could one give up on their 'macaron', 'croissant', 'eclair' or 'pain au chocolat'? Then again, after my other expat experience in Norway (more details right here), no wonder the French food is a miracle. Their cheese, their wine, their quiches, goddam'em.

The people. Are really nice in general, but considerably kinder if you make the effort to address them in their own language (yes, again the language paradigm, I might have a slight obsession). The guys are pretty shy, and, as previously noted, pretty...pretty, probably way too pretty. And they're really big on Eastpack backpacks, literally each Parisian guy has one. The women are outspoken and straightforward, and not as stereotypically ladylike and fashionable as I would have expected. Oh and really big on tights and blonde highlights. I mean really, really enthusiastic. Overall they're quite pleasant people, having managed to shake out  my preconception about the rude typical French. All peachy peachy, but have I mentioned the 'no English language' policy?

Places to visit, things to do. The abundance is overwhelming, and I'm still baffled by my cheesy girly nature and by how a quick glimpse to a tacky sparkling Tour Eiffel can turn my day around. Seriously speaking though, Paris has so much to offer,  that planning a trip here should be on anyone's shortlist. I'm not going to start enumerating a list of landmarks to be more convincing, you can find a 'top 10' or a 'top 50' anywhere. Just know it from me as well that when it comes to travelling, Paris, it is worth it!

Miscellaneous. A few more random facts before the length of the opinion-sharing becomes unbearable. Really tiny, overpriced, cozy apartments, a weirdly inefficient and slow work rhythm, great transportation system, strangely high prices for cosmetics, many benefits for youth under 26, a fair range of shopping opportunities, very moody weather.

Secondly, about me in Paris. Basically, the equation is simple, Crina+Paris=Love. But then again, on one hand anyone+Paris=Love, on the other Crina+anything can equal love if the circumstances are right, this being an (obvious) hint to my being prone to getting overly attached to people, places, objects, especially on grounds of novelty and loneliness. Fact is that even though I am terribly missing some elements from back home and I have it rough sometimes, for the time being I am (overall) happier here than anywhere else I've been before. Fact is that after seas and oceans of Bucharest tears, the first shy wave of Parisian ones is apparently yet to arrive, so something must be right. Fact is that I am my worst critic, and this is crippling my joy and taking away some of this great experience, also keeping myself from bringing my A game. Fact is that I am happy, but not happy enough, I am doing good, but not good enough.

So Paris, you own me, lucky you. Why won't you own me already?

The First Day (of the Rest of my Life)

At this point I reckon I've been pretty outspoken about it, so there's probably no one not aware that as of this Friday I'm living in Paris for the following half a year.

Obviously, some fresh thoughts after my weekend spent here.

CDG airport is really pretty and well organized. I literally had my luggage running on the belt in around 10 minutes, which would never happen in Bucharest. Or in Amsterdam. Or wherever. Might have been just a fluke but it doesn't matter. Afterwards, the way to the bus/metro/taxis was quite comprehensive, so some more extra points for this unexpected French effectiveness. Even more extras for the taxi service, safe and fast and not at all dubious, with a really pleasant chauffeur. A little expensive, but totally worth the money.

Then the hotel for the first night. It was supposed to be a 3-star but was far from it. Kudos to the friendliness of the staff, who despite their limited English tried their best to cater to my needs.

Vive Google maps, who allowed me to get myself around in a really efficient manner. Vive the (only) nice girl from HR who took care to book a hotel at a walking distance from the studio they rented out for me.

The apartment. Is really cozy, equipped wonderfully with everything from teaspoons to pillows and to a washing machine. Even if it is rather small and built in a strange old building with a twisted wooden staircase, it is perfectly chic, modern, and suited to my needs. Extra points for the white furniture and for the surpise bed under my double bed. More extra points for the quiet and safe neighbourhood, and for the proximity to the city center. A small minus for being rather far from the office in the suburbs, but I guess this is the trade-off, ultimately the most advantegeous one.

The food. Just the one from the supermarket I've tried, priced moderately, somewhere between Bucharest and Oslo. The range of products is good, I'll not suffer from scarcity. Oh and I discovered they have Marks and Spencer food stores, so a big hurray!

The people. Look calm, polished and beautiful, and they speak this amazing language I shamefully cannot produce properly.

I this first weekend I walked over 15 km, discovered some Starbuckses and a huge Haagen-Dazs store,  bought groceries and office pants (not from the same place),wandered the entire Champs-Elysees, saw the Triumph Arch, got lost, was asked for directions, spoke a bit of French, was visited by a neighbour, unpacked my bags, and plenty more. 

What I did not do, despite the evidence, is be sad or homesick. So this can only mean these are the first days of the rest of my life, living my honeymoon stage with Paris. 

Sundays I go crazy, this one too

It's like a hungry revolting monster eats me up every Sunday morning. I wake up wanting to act normal, well, at least the normal I used myself to, but I somehow slip into the crazy Sunday mood. Not quite sure what influences me to embrace this socially unacceptable conduct, it's not like every Saturday night I get stepped over and soul-absorbed by a thousand people trying to attend an overrated event or, oppositely, I feel randomly ignored. It was a mere happening that those should happen this Saturday, so it might explain today's partial Sunday fail, but what do we do about the rest? Because trust me, I am to be reckoned with in this holy day of the week, I wish I found a way I were not.

Somewhat helpful for the Sunday social monster was tonight's outing. We went to see Shorts Up via London in a newly opened location, some sort of an industrial space, overestimated, from my humble perspective. The course of events was rather acceptable, starting with a concert of Moonlight Breakfast, a fresh young band, whose lead singer seemed quite stoned to me. Their music is bearable though, I most definitely recommend it for steamy circumstances, for those who experience them, more or less. 

What followed was a number of short British movies, 5 to 15 minutes, which carried my mind and feelings through a rollercoaster. The journey started literally up with a "lift story", which I guess wanted to have a profound strike, but I had not achieved the right cultural status yet, so what I perceived was a bunch of people going in and out of an elevator and interacting at a superficial level. Meh, it worked though, superficial can be my thing. What followed was a rather disturbing tale from a sperm bank, which beyond the trivial and somewhat kinky cover up, I suppose was a pointer to how selfish and crazy can loneliness make human beings. But then again, who is not crazy and selfish may throw the first stone. Then an amusing alter ego story, about how can one take in one's dark side and learn to live with the horrible feelings and cravings that eat one's inside up. Rather appropriate story for my Sunday mood swings. Then Nolan's short up about a bug, from what I concluded a cinematographic interpretation of Kafka's metamorphosis, which I unfortunately missed while trying out the eco restrooms. Last but not least there was Stanley Pickle's story, which ruined everything I had been striving to build up with British muffins, Grolsch and enjoyable trivial little movies. The maximum level of sadness wrapped up in a toy story, with piglet sweaters, green fields and purple ribbons. Which brought me back exactly to the state I started the morning with, outmost heartly autism. We left before the bald lady sang, otherwise who knows what would have become of us. And who else to attend to the more earthly tasks Sunday evening brings about. All in all, I survived another week end without stewing someone, be it myself, which is great. And there's even more silver lining to the current situation. Tomorrow's Monday, so, good news, it cannot possibly get worse. 

Meanwhile, chop chop with your eyes wide open the delicious butter cream muffins, and forgive my crazy Sundays.

Later edit: A-ye, I shook out my stone age and discovered how to add videos, so here's also a sample of the Moonlight breakfast, a song so true it hurts.