Tag: small successes

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287 – 301

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I like pretty cocktails from Combat

 

It’s been a little over two weeks since I’ve settled into my new place, and slowly but surely, things are finally starting to feel like home.

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Finding creative ways to hang photos helps

Quite a number of notable events happened in those two weeks, at least one of which was witnessed by pretty much the entire world over in one way or another. I closed my last post with my housewarming party, and all the leftover chips I (still) have in my house, sitting on my table…just waiting to be consumed…at some point.

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Old mustard pots make great vessels for desserts…just saying

In the days that followed, I reoriented myself with my (not so) new surroundings, trying to establish a routine that could follow me through into the rentrée. I planned new walking routes (because of course I did), I acquainted myself with my new smaller kitchen, I made things, gifted things, stocked my tiny fridge to the brim with things. I got back in touch with two old friends, one of whom I hadn’t seen in about five years, and who I had originally met in my first study abroad program when I was an undergrad. They work as an actor full-time in New York now, and were in town as part of an independent production : a reworking/reimagining of sorts of La Vie d’Adèle (Blue is the Warmest Color). I won’t go too much into the details of how this went because even though my friend and I had a long and incredibly cathartic on their end, at least from what I gathered, talk about all the almost unbelievable nonsense that muddied the overall mood of the production, I’m not sure how much negativity I want to put out into the world right now when there are so many others (two world leaders in particular are coming to mind…) doing the job so astoundingly well already. Suffice it to say that an overinflated ego that all but blinds you to the – I know, astounding – reality that your audience is more than fully capable of interacting intelligently with and drawing informed conclusions from your piece, is never the best way to go about things.
On the bright side, the aforementioned cathartic conversation with said friend did allow me the opportunity to add a new restaurant to my list, Le Cadoret, located about 5 or so minutes from my apartment. It’s going right up there with the three dumpling places, and the proximity to my favorite café on my list of reasons why I’m really glad I moved into this apartment.

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Beets and boudin noir to start
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Pork and the fluffiest pommes dauphine I have ever tasted
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Cheese…because of course.

This first reunion was followed up on by another with another friend – from the Cité U days – who I also hadn’t seen since the last time I moved out of Paris in 2014. Unfortunately, schedules never worked out in our favor to meet up during my subsequent short visits, and right before I moved back, she took a job in Vienna. Luckily though, she was in town for the night of July 14th (Bastille Day), so a small group of us were able to get together for dinner before heading over to the Pont Alexandre III to watch the fireworks with a slightly smaller crowd than the masses on the Champ de Mars. Let me tell you, watching the fireworks with an incredibly, excessively belligerent human squawking the Marseillaise – along with several other chants relating to France’s semifinal win the night before – right behind you is quite an experience. I mean really, it was almost as though we were right there, on the champ de mars, listening to the soundtrack of various pop songs that no doubt accompanied the (several) ecstatic bursts of color. The theme this year was Paris in Love. I have no doubt that nothing illustrated that theme better than the love that was shown between that man the the robust capacity of his vocal chords (really though, the show lasted just over 30 minutes, and he kept at it the whole time…yes people asked him repeatedly to knock it off…and yes after a while we realized that this, like the fight against our own mortality in this journey called life, was a futile endeavor).
Anyway.

Speaking of celebrations, France won the World Cup. I met up with the boyfriend at a bar near his friend’s place, a bar that, once I walked in, gave me strong California vibes, with a touch of New England maritime aesthetic.
Despite the very palpable feelings of stress that permeated the room during a large part of the first half (let’s get this out of the way now: France did not play well at all during a very good portion of that game), once the goals started happening – and especially once victory became almost inevitable –, the mood changed, as one might expect it would during an event like this.
Really though, I don’t think anything can quite capture the absolute joy that radiated out into the streets after the match was over. I didn’t really feel up for heading down to the Champs Elysées that evening (or the day after for the team’s welcome home parade), but honestly, it almost didn’t matter where you were in the city (I’m going to stress that last bit here because, of course, access to the celebrations from the banlieues was all but cut off that night), the celebration all but found you.

All this to segue into another victory, a smaller, more personal one, perhaps, but a victory all the same.
I installed a washing machine.
A bit of background: before I moved in to my apartment, the friend of mine who was living there before me informed me that the in-unit washing machine was smoking. This is, of course, not normal. Not a problem. I strategized my laundry at my old place, a new machine was ordered, and two weeks later, there it was in my ‘living room’.
Now here’s a thing about France that I did not know at the time: technically, if you order a large appliance like this to replace an old or broken one, the delivery service, by law, has to take the old one out of your place when they deliver the new one. The former is then dropped off at an appropriate recycling facility where it is either repaired/refurbished (if possible), or taken apart and its materials being put to use elsewhere. Of course, this system does at times mean that you will encounter people who conveniently ‘forget’ to take your old machine, meaning you find yourself in a conundrum of being on the top floor of a 5th (US 6th) floor walk-up with one more washing machine than you really know what to do with.

One thing was for certain though: I needed to do laundry. For that, I had to install the new machine.
Shout-out here to the boyfriend for helping me figure out how to do it over the phone, and for granting me the realization that it really isn’t quite as annoyingly complicated as I thought it would be.
Well, the actual installation part at least (apart from this moment where I almost had a breakdown because the damn faucet thing wouldn’t stop leaking until I realized that the tube was screwed on slightly crookedly and that there really was a very simple solution to that problem). The moving the old machine out and the new one into place was slightly less so.
Honestly, that part was a bitch. But at least now I have clean underwear so…

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*Victoriously sips on a really quite excellent Freddo Cappuccino from IBRIK as a way to mark the completion of an initially daunting task…

 

As to the old machine, thankfully I had a few friends willing to come lend a hand to bring it down the stairs (and a neighbor who caught us about 2/3rds of the way down and offered his help as well), otherwise that thing was (metaphorically) going right out the window.

Finally, the week was rounded out with another first for me: my first trip to a public swimming pool in Paris. Yay!
My friend Isabella and I were keen for a bit of sun/sunning, and since going to the beach was not an option (1: last minute train tickets there were a bit too expensive, and 2: all the trains back were full), we figured why not do the next best thing and go to an open-air swimming pool (conveniently located near both the Parc des Buttes Chaumont and my apartment).
Contrary to my expectations, the pool wasn’t overwhelmingly crowded that day, and was actually very nice and clean (as in, the water was crystal clear, and did not smell overwhelmingly of chlorine clean). We mostly sat out on the pool ledge to get some sun and dip our feet in (no lounge chairs in the immediate area, unfortunately), but after a bit, we did end up donning our (mandatory) swimming caps and taking a quick dip in.

Coincidentally, this is also the thing that reminded me of why I never really sought out going to public pools here. I hate swimming caps.
Another side note: someone is going to need to explain to me exactly why it is that in France the rule is that you must take a quick shower – with soap, provided in the changing rooms – before going in the water. This seems counterintuitive.
As I am going to be off to Greece in a couple of weeks, I don’t fully anticipate visiting the pool again this summer, but given how pretty excellent their access packages are price-wise, maybe this could become a weekly thing next year. Who knows?
Hell, maybe by then I’ll have bought myself a swim cap that’s a slight more comfortable than the 2eur one I bought from the vending machine in the entrance lobby. There were two colors available: black and navy blue. Take a wild guess as to which one I picked…

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As you can see, this is not a swim cap. No, this is some apricot jam I made. Another mini-success
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107

Amazing the things that can happen when you finally get out of your own head.

These past few weeks – as some of my posts can attest – I’ve been grappling with some pretty unruly writer’s block with regards to my dissertation prospectus. Although I had jotted a few notes down here and there, I had yet to attempt to flesh out anything, partly due to my recent project change, partly due to a feeling of uncertainty that I had any authority to say anything about my subject (though this could also be linked back to the first point). It was getting to the point where I could almost feel myself bending and overburdened by stress – the jet lag was certainly not helping either – but then last night, in what I’m calling a brief flash of sanity, I reserved myself a spot at the BNF, the goal being to go there with just my ipad, park myself in a chair, and write.

And although towards the end of the afternoon, coherent paragraphs gave way to rather extensive bullet points, I can say that I left this afternoon feeling very productive and clear-headed. In short, I have a lot of thoughts, but at least for now they’re out of my head and filling up a word doc instead. There are still gaps to fill, I am fully aware of that. My goal was never to write a ‘perfect’ document. But I can start to see the gaps more clearly, at the very least. It’s almost as if I’m untangling myself from the weeds.

Progress is a slow, steady thing. Sometimes I still need to remind myself that I’m not tasked with writing the next great text that absolutely must upend everything and completely revolutionize the field, etc. etc. etc. Not that this should downplay what I’m working on, just that maybe I need to slightly readjust my way of thinking. Let the project just be. Nurture it, change and grow with it instead of trying to force it to become some idealized…thing (also, idealized according to whose standards?). Anyway, I told myself that this year I would actively try to be less hard on myself when it came to my work. Perhaps now would be a good time to start.

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106

I know with the new year having just arrived, people usually use the month of January to talk about resolutions, commitments to undertaking a change of sorts.

I, however, want to talk about rediscovery.

During my visit back to the Bay Area, I accompanied a friend of mine to a Bikram Yoga class. I had never tried this style before, but as it had been over a year or so since I last practiced any kind of yoga regularly, I thought I’d give it a shot. To my surprise, I actually really liked it (then again, countless summers in Greece have made me really appreciate intense heat…), and the overall sense of calm and openness I felt afterwards was one I could not remember having felt for a long time. Being constantly on the go does have a tendency to build up tension after all.

And so I decided after that lesson to try and add yoga back to my schedule when I returned to Paris.

Although there are studios in the city that offer Bikram classes, I decided to sign up for a Vinyasa class at Big Apple Yoga primarily because 1) that’s the style I’m used to practicing and 2) my need for variety doesn’t exactly make the thought of regular Bikram practice – where the same positions are always used – terribly appealing. In any case, given how relaxed I’m feeling right now, I think I’m going to stick to making this a regular Monday night thing. I’ll need something to calm me down after spending the day teaching English classes.

Ah yes, on that note: I am back to teaching at the high school in one of those rare instances of history repeating itself, as last time I lived here I also stepped in for a teacher who had to leave midway through the year. The only difference now is that I have three classes (one from each grade, as this high school is 10th – 12th grades) instead of just two. Being busy is good for me though. I need something to keep my mind active so I’m not always dwelling on my project. It gets rather exhausting after a while.

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Happy Birthday to Me (70 – 73)

In the spirit of relaxing/recharging/recuperating/renewing, I decided to take a break from things for my birthday weekend. Well, for the most part anyway. Sure, I found time to read one or two articles, but other than that, I decided to devote the majority of the weekend to ‘treating myself’ in the fullest extent of the term.

The exception to this was a tutoring session on Thursday (aka my actual birthday), but on the plus side, this afforded me some extra pocket money that I used to buy the rest of the ingredients I needed to make a pumpkin pie (because honestly, I’m not going to be home for Thanksgiving this year, and finding pumpkin pie in this city is almost like finding a needle in a haystack…with rare exceptions). Oh and also a bath bomb and bubble bath bar from Lush.

I don’t care if my tub was momentarily stained by golden glitter: if any evening deserves a bubble bath accompanied by bourbon (my other gift to myself), candles, and Christmas music, it’s definitely my birthday evening. Plus, it got cleaned up the next day anyway. Along with the rest of my house.

Yes, that’s right everyone, I spent Friday cleaning, something I have not done since a bit before I left for Boston. Call it a need for a fresh start on my first day of being 28 – or, if we’re being honest, an understandable reaction to spilling flour on your floor while making a pie crust – but at least I’m starting this year off on a high note. 27 was…interesting, tumultuous, kind of shit at points quite frankly. I’m determined to make 28…not that.

And anyway, it wasn’t all about cleaning. I ended my day with a night at Red House celebrating my birthday with friends (as well as with…an undisclosed number of Old Fashioneds…because my friends are wonderful). The fact that a good number of us ended up staying until the lights came on to announce last call was, I think, the surest marker of an evening well-spent.

Of course, this did mean that Saturday ended up being a day of resting, sleeping, and in general doing nothing.

Rounding off the weekend was a late lunch at Pho Banh Cuon with an old friend who’s in town for the week, followed by a walk along the Seine just as the sun was coming down. We’re in the tail end of fall now, and the last golden leaves are still just hanging on to the trees (which, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, have a dark, almost black trunk that contrasts beautifully with the bright yellow leaves, especially after a bit of rain). This also means that Christmas decorations are going up, signaling the start of one of my favorite times of the year. Really, I just cannot get enough of twinkly Christmas lights.

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50 – 51 

So…I may have inadvertently auditioned for someone yesterday…

I’m not even entirely sure how it happened, other than it was somewhat organic. I was technically at the venu in question after a colleague in Boston put me in touch with the woman directing the show that was meant to be put on that day. I say ‘meant’ because due to some issue with the technician (as in: his lack of being there), the show could not go on because no one else knew how to run the tech board (small team; it happens). After chatting with said director for a bit about my work, the subject inevitably moved to whether or not I still perform (answer: when I can/have time), and soon she was asking me if I had anything I could show her.

Thank goodness I had my monologue from my Shakespeare class ready (as well as some text from last spring’s Le Siège de Calais)! 

I don’t think this audition – if that’s what we want to call it – is going to lead to anything, but sometimes it just feels really good to share your art with someone, especially another art maker (something I don’t encounter as often as I would like anymore). To add to this, the managing director of the theatre, who also watched my ‘audition’, loaned me a copy of a collection of plays by one of their former resident writers. Naturally, I had to go to a café to read some of them. La Fontaine de Belleville ended up being perfect for the occasion.

Café noisette and shortbread: some of my favorite things.

Today was relatively chill with the majority of my time spent in the library reading more newspaper archives – although this time, they were dated from before the riots around the play I’m looking at now started, and I cannot tell you the level of dramatic irony that hit me every time I read something to the effect of ‘Oh, maybe all our worries about violent outbursts and reactions were unfounded’. The weather, however, was decidedly not ‘chill’, but more late summer pleasant, which made staying inside very difficult. Thankfully, I did get a good amount of walking in while on my way to a tutoring session with a student.

I really like fall…

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Another post on recovering (47)

So, a week ago, during one of my (thankfully rarer) low points, I decided to download this app called Mend, which labels itself as a kind of personal trainer for heartbreak. Given the ‘cleanse’ style of this first week on the app, I think the idea is to download and start using it not long after a breakup, but honestly, sometimes three-ish months (holy shit) after is better than nothing.
Using the app has been alright. Sometimes the ‘training’ it provides can feel a little too…simplistic? Surface level? I’m not sure how to describe it because it’s clearly designed in such a way that it can be applicable to a variety of situations, and which can kind of leave you feeling like you want to probe deeper, while knowing that you can’t because you’d be talking to a recording.

Anyway, what I have liked about the app are the journal prompts. I’ve started refocusing my thoughts more on myself than solely on the breakup and all that came with it, and although I’m still not quite where I want to be mentally/emotionally speaking, I feel like I’m slowly getting back there. The key word being slowly.

As I had finished the first week of using the app today – and as my mood was a bit shaky from all the wandering my mind inevitably does when I’ve been reading/studying for a while – I decided to take up the app’s prompt to ‘treat myself’ this afternoon. So I got an ice cream cone from Berthillon.

Perfect lil’ scoop

I’ve mentioned before how much I like black sesame, so you can bet that when I saw it listed as one of their available flavors, there was no way I was changing my mind. And yes, I am aware the scoop is a bit on the smaller end, but you’re paying for quality here. For a treat, I think it did just fine.

I actually could have treated myself a bit more as well, had I left the BNF a bit earlier, but fortunately for my wallet, the bouquinistes were closing up shop for the day by the time I got to the Île St Louis/ Hôtel de Ville area.

Honestly, when books can cost as little as 2eu, there’s precious little that can be done to keep me away.

Overall right now? The ups and downs still happen, but slightly less. At times it gets hard being alone – especially when you’re so used to having someone around to share your day with -, but I’m readjusting I think. And when the days get particularly hard, all I have to do is go outside and see this :
And remember that I’m here.

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46

I know I’ve talked before about the perks of walking in this city, but I just want to take a moment and add this…gem to that list : 

Nothing inspires confidence in an Italian restaurant quite like a dead-eyed gladiator mannequin.

With some determination on my end, I did manage to get up early enough to get a workout in and have time to hit the market early. This is the same outdoor market I visited before, but I think after today, I might designate Wednesday rather than Saturday as market day. 
I mean, look at how not crowded it is : 

First in line for all the produce…me.

I didn’t take a picture of it, but I made a pretty excellent butternut squash soup with some of the produce/herbs I bought today (including carrots that were some of the sweetest I’ve ever tasted). Unfortunately, being somewhat of a klutz at times, I kind of bumped my thumb on the top of the oven when putting in the squash and carrots for roasting, so now I’ve got quite the scar forming. I did not, however, have a breakdown while cooking (like what happened last week when I tackled another post-market cooking project), so I’m still chalking this one up as a win. Baby steps, after all. Baby steps. 

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39

I know that popular opinion still hails Paris as one of the food capitals of the world, but sometimes I wonder if maybe we need to rethink that… 

I know you know what the difference between a burger and a pizza is, Paris. I’m just confused that you allowed these things to happen at all…

My favorite thing about this is that little reminder to practice regular physical activity written at the bottom of the ads. It’s cute.
In other food-related news, today was one of those days where sitting at the library reading for longer than my usual 4ish hours was just not going to happen. Coupled with a somewhat sour mood that has been nagging at me for the past few days – this may or may not have something to do with the cold I’m currently getting over, as well as the general feeling that can only be described as a screaming ‘blegh’ that comes with the realization that the partner that would normally help care for you is not there and you have to make soup for yourself while dealing with the sinuses from hell -, I felt like I deserved a treat. After all, it’s Wednesday, the middle of the week, and sometimes it’s nice to make yourself feel a little good.
So I trekked over to Blé Sucré, a boulangerie I usually stop at for a croissant or kouign aman if I can get there early enough in the morning (seriously, if you ever get the opportunity, get the kouign aman. Buttery, sweet, sugary goodness. I get cravings just thinking about them). As I arrived just after 4pm, the majority of the viennoiserie were gone, but thankfully a small stack of cookies in the display case caught my eye.

Yes, I ate this while walking. There’s a Parisian taboo I do not mind breaking.

Originally, I thought this was a chocolate chunk-macadamia nut cookie, but after taking a bite, realized that what I thought were macadamia nuts were really almonds. It was a nice surprise, though. I love almonds.
Of course, I’m not planning on making these cookie trips a regular thing (granted I did walk pretty much all the way across the city after eating this, so I’m not too worried about it ‘going straight to my hips’ or anything). But I’ve started to readopt a habit I first cultivated when I was doing my masters here, namely, putting the books down and letting myself be in the world, allowing myself to enjoy a little of whatever indulgence without feeling guilty about it. One of my professors when I was at Reid Hall made a point to tell us at the beginning of the year how important it was to ‘go outside’, even if the work we did regularly confined us to the inside of libraries. With all the walking I do, I guess you could say I didn’t need much convincing in order to adopt the idea. 

And because it’s always good to end on a positive food-related note, this evening, I had some delicious bibimbap in the company of good friends. I’ll save those strange pizza/burger/things for another day. 

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The universe might like me today (30)

You know what’s awful? Getting good news, and then the minute you think about who you’re going to tell first, the thought slams into you that that person is not there anymore, that the position they formerly occupied is now vacant.

And then you recover from getting the wind knocked out of you – again – and you wonder if that blip of excitement, the one that comes only when you have something good, small or big, you just have to share with someone, will come back and stay a little longer.

So I’m just going to tell you lovely people. All…5 or so of you.

One of the things I did when I first moved back was reach out to the school I where used to teach English/run a theatre club to see if I could start the latter up again (I had it on good authority that there would be interest among the students). What they offered me was the opportunity to teach an SAT prep class, as well as run a theatre club. The catch was that for the club to happen, at least five students had to register. 

And because the universe likes me just a little bit…I got exactly five. Hooray for me! 

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25 – 29

So I’ve been a bit MIA lately (so much for the daily posting…), but in my defense, I think I have a good excuse.
I’ve been eating. (Prepare yourselves for some rapid-fire restaurant commentating)

The Normande galette from Wednesday’s dinner at Breizh Café. Behold that beautiful Camembert…

I figured that since we had already gotten the museums and sites and whatnot out of the way, I’d devote my mom’s last few days here to taking her to as many different restaurants as possible (so…three), ticking off the boxes in terms of Parisian/French ‘must-tries’ that she had not yet experienced – and would quite frankly be hard-pressed to find back in the states. 

One of these things were Breton-style crêpes, and in particular the savory buckwheat galettes served with a pitcher of crisp, dry (my personal preference) cider. Normally, I would have taken her down to Josselin near Montparnasse for this, but as I didn’t want to chance a wait (the rain was being finicky that day), I opted instead to take her to Breizh Café in the Marais, a place that I had been keen on trying for a while but had yet to make it to. As far as crêpes go, the menu offered the traditional ‘completes’ of ham, cheese, and egg, as well as some more interesting combinations like the one I chose, which came with prosciutto, camembert and a salad. Overall, I think I still prefer Josselin to this place – crêpes are more filling, and the prices are a tad friendlier, though even in the Marais, crêpes have not gotten too exorbitantly priced – but for the ease that came with being able to reserve a table (highly recommended), I would gladly come here again.

And really, it was a good thing we did not overstuff ourselves because Thursday’s dinner was a trip to what is still my absolute favorite place to go out to eat in this city : Chez Gladines

If you aren’t smothering your duck breast in Roquefort sauce, are you even living?

Now, Gladines has a few locations around the city, but the original restaurant in the Buttes aux Cailles neighborhood in the 13th arrondissement is still the best of the bunch. The fact that its a bit tucked away from the main tourist areas of the city means that it still retains a lot of the lively spirit and soul of the immediate area – which, coincidentally, happens to be frequented in large part by students living at the Cité Universitaire, my old graduate residence, and only a short tram/metro ride away. As the photo above suggests, portions are incredibly generous, but prices are definitely reflective of the budgets of most of the clientele. And yes, the fact that the dinner crowd – especially later in the evening – is comprised primarily of 20/early 30-somethings means that it can get rather…jovial…in there after a certain hour, but this energy becomes rather infectious, especially when it is evident that the staff is having just as much fun as the patrons. The fact that the food is also delicious – those potatoes are still some of the most beautiful, garlicky, fried things I have ever consumed, and the salad still makes me laugh with its attempt to add a bit of ‘health’ to this atomic calorie bomb – and wines by the glass start at around 3/3.50euros, almost makes you never want to leave.

Finally came Friday, my mom’s last night in Paris, and thus a night for some more…’typical’…parisian dining. 

Not many places do the ‘radishes and sea salt’ thing as a complementary offering. Pity.

Le Temps des Cerises is a bistro located in the 4th arrondissement, off a side street just down the road from the Place de la Bastille. The bistro itself has been around for a while – I think the building, which looks like a little house, may have conservation status – but it hasn’t fallen into the trap of resting on its years to the detriment of the food, as some other historical eateries have. There’s a small dining room downstairs, and when we arrived, I feared that we’d be waiting a while, even though we had made a reservation, as all the tables were full. Fortunately, we were ushered up the stairs to another small room on the upper floor, this one a bit quieter than the bar/dining area downstairs. And maybe you can glean this from the photo, but there was an unmistakable warmth and coziness that enveloped the room and almost made me want to curl up in my chair and fall asleep, perhaps with a large mug of tea. Thankfully, I had had my afternoon espresso earlier that day, so I was able to stay wide awake for my meal.

We split an order of escargot to start, followed by chicken and fried potatoes for my mom, ray, mashed potatoes, and micro greens for me, and then finished with a tarte tatin for dessert, all of it washed down with a lovely carafe of white wine (and I didn’t note which one we chose, but I believe it was a Languedoc…). A stereotypical bistro meal, I guess you could say, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to add this place to my rotation of eateries I take people to when they visit me.

And then Saturday (yesterday) morning, I dropped my mom off at Charles de Gaulle, leaving her with one last treat for the long trip back to San Francisco : chocolates from Jacques Genin.

She was worried security would try and confiscate these. Of course they didn’t, but I did tell her if they tried to just eat them all…out of spite.

Last night also included a visit to the Experimental Cocktail Club, another place I have been meaning to try since I was last living here, as well as marked another personal first : going to a bar alone. Okay, this one might not count because the reason I was there alone was that I was waiting for my friends to arrive, but saddling up to the bar, ordering my cocktail – as the name suggests, their menu changes frequently with new creations, so the fact that I had something called an Old Cuban last night will probably make no difference should I, or any of you reading this, choose to visit this bar in the future – and people watching for a bit was not as awkward or uncomfortable as I originally thought it might be. There’s a part of me that would maybe consider doing something like this again, but perhaps next time I’ll do it on a weekday…oh and bring a book.

All this brings us to today which consisted of going to a drop-in acting class, seeing the French entry for this years foreign language Oscar race (120 Battements par minute / 120 Beats Per Minute, a film centered around the Paris chapter of Act Up and the French government’s (non) response to the AIDs crisis in the 1990s), and then heading to La Fontaine de Belleville to do some reading. Tomorrow it’s back at the BNF where I will continue with the super fun task of continually convincing myself that my project is a good idea (that is, assuming I get a better handle on the thing). Dissertations are a bitch.