I'm not from Barcelona

Cause I already made the joke, can I throw it out there that "I'm From Barcelona" is the most uncreative, uninsightful, and typical name for an indie band.  Their music is abhorrent, too.

But yeah, I went there last weekend.  I had been before a few years ago, but this trip certainly left a very mixed impression in my mind.  Sure, it is beautiful, the food is delicious, everyone parties all night long, and it is leagues cheaper than Parigi.  That's a given.  But, Barcelona is distinctly not Paris.  The overwhelming and irritating presence of sleazy whores and cerveza-hash sellers all over the city is troubling, to say the least.  The pickpockets are everywhere.  Everywhere.  Over four days, I had five run-ins with thieves.  Some more subtle than others, but none successful.  Sometimes there was a front, an obviously maligned attempt to charm naive tourists before grabbing a back pocket, and other times, it was just a not-so-subtle threat of force.  

As all of this went on, I thought about the Bresson film "Pickpocket," and more than anything, as Jon not so subtly told an attempted thief, "you're absolutely terrible at your job.  Find a new profession."  I don't know what to say other than, you would expect someone intent on making money by stealing to at least show a little bit of finesse--hell, even Bernie Madoff managed that.  After one older man unsuccessfully  tried to take Jon's wallet, as we walked away, his friend apologized and then tried to sell us hash.  Seriously?  I guess I'm shocked that the general

 tourist naiveté was outdone by the pickpockets' general naiveté.

I was able to get back to Paris in one piece with wallet in pocket, even if missing my easyjet flight probably cost me more than a would-be thief.  The real thiefs work at the airport.  They took the cool corkscrew I bought when I went through security, too.

On the other hand, it is a beautiful city, and I did eat like a king.  The main market is sensational.  Hundreds of stands boast every kind of vegetable, animal, and fish known to man, and to our delight, the juice of every fruit at 1E .  Kiwi is a severely underrated juice.

As a general repercussion of living in a landlocked city for months, I was the most fascinated by the seafood section, with its vast array of shelled life I didn't know existed. I particularly liked this one shot.  I'm not really sure what this fishmongress is doing, but I do wonder whether or not she washes her banana before she touches raw fish.

Paella and red wine.

"Razor clams." Delicious.

There was also a fair bit of exploring Gaudi buildings.  Everyone you know has been to Barcelona and posted pictures of themselves in front of that mosaic iguana in Parc Guel on facebook, but it does truly go without saying that his architectural style is totally unique and beautiful.  I found Casa Batlo extremely mystifying and I can only hope that one day I have the capital to rent out the building for my own private usage.  You know, when I win the lotto.

I thought that the scene was awful Hitchcockian and I would not have been at all surprised to see this woman in black jump from the roof à la Vertigo.  Maybe she already did, and this is really her.  Well the roof is a brilliantly colored architectural beauty, and I was happy to walk around it for far too much time taking in the long-awaited sun.  The interior was equally beautiful, although half the building is actually owned by private citizens, who actually get to live and work there.  Fuck them I paid 13E admission.

All in all, it was an enjoyable trip and highs, lows, and cadences. 

fail / flâneur

I apologize to my vast readership that I haven't posted anything in a couple weeks. I blame the weak internet connection in my room.  Yep, that's it.  I guess my method, like many things in life, is to delay until it's the 11th hour, and then make up for my laziness by impressing.  Well, at least I'll try.  

I accidentally burnt off a little eyebrow one morning using this.  Always make sure your lighter is not set to two-foot-tall mode.  

I'm really phased by the fact that I just paid my third month's rent, and I leave some time after the 6th.  Far too soon.  My quest for S.... A.... 'meaning' is far from 1/3 complete (honhonhon ... jeer).  Far too much to do and see and say and while there's probably enough time to do most things I wanna do, I like taking my time.  Moreover, staying-here-indefinitely is not a feasible goal in six months.  Damnit.

*******

Last week, I spent a few hours wandering around Père Lachaise cemetery, one of the several famous cemeteries in Paris, full of famous and rich corpses.  Yes, Jim Morrison is there.  If you intend to look for famous writers/artists/philosophers/politicians/musicians/etc etc etc, well, you can.  But in that case, you should probably buy the map from the guy at the entrance.  Cause otherwise, you will wander relatively aimlessly indefinitely (obviously what I did).  Not that that was a bad choice at all.  The posted maps in the cemetary are vague and confusing.  Everything I saw, I found by accident (a true flâneur?) while looking for something else.  

The first confusion stemmed from the fact that the French have a set of pretty popular names, leading to endless numbers of people with famous namesakes  (indeed, my host family, the Legrand family, constantly makes reference to their famous ancestor from Macedonia (Alexandre Legrand). Har har.  Like a fool, I took pictures of 'famous graves' before realizing that they were just ordinary joe's with enough pull to get themselves buried in Père Lachaise.  After that, I decided to accept that I was aimlessly wandering, and it was readily apparent, that taking a photo of Jim Morrison's grave (diminutive, if you ask me) was NOT the goal.   

The opulent wealth of nearly everyone buried here is fairly obvious (especially when contrasted with the nameless piles of bones in the Catacombes, for example).  There are a lot of families named "Bourgeois" (yes, it is a popular name), but even without such a glaringly expensive name, the wealth buried in the cemetery is evident.  I don't mean to connote anything negative (right now) because walking through endless rows of beautifully decorated graves was extremely peaceful and beautiful.

I thought it was somewhat awkward because these celeb-teries are just as much tourist attractions as they are places of mourning and memory.  I wasn't sure whether or not I should feel guilty taking pictures of people in the cemetery, or even the gravestones.  While the graves date back several hundred years, there are also people buried in Père Lachaise today.  It is not just a historical monument; on the other hand, it is not just an anonymous cemetary. 

But what is for sure is that the corpses in Père Lachaise lie in style, even if they went out without it.  The countless mini-mausoleums containing entire families of bourgeois Frenchmen are beautiful and elegant.  Yet, most of them are rusting or in some relative state of disrepair. It makes it feel more authentically old.

Of the famous graves, Oscar Wilde's was probably the most interesting and obviously the most flamboyant.  I think that the picture speaks for itself (and the reputation preceding it, as well).

Next time, though, I'll probably go with a map; I couldn't find Maurice Merleau-Ponty or André Breton and I'd like to pay my respects (or at least say whatup).

Picasso sans Picasso

Daniel Buren's installation piece "La Coupure" in (over, around, between) the Musée Picasso uses giant mirrors to alter the apparent spatial field around the viewer, heightening the effect of Picasso's cubist and abstract body of work.  If museum-going is experiential, which I believe it is, then Buren's installation may even have overshadowed the enormous permanent collection.  In the center atrium of the Hôtel Salé, which houses the museum, an enormous mirror divides the museum in half, using vertical symmetry to closely replicate the other half the building, which is apparent only by looking behind the mirror.  While I wonder how many birds have met their end flying into this hundred-someodd foot tall invisible wall, it has a more subtle affect on the human eye.  At times, it was perfectly apparent that there is a giant mirror doubling the visual plane.  Yet at others, there was the implicit knowledge that the building was mirrored, however the affect was subtle enough to feign an actual continuous plane from one side of the building to the other. 

I'm not quite sure, but I believe the colored window panels were also part of the Buren exhibition.  The museum is quite well-lit, with a litany of large windows allowing natural light to enter.  From the upper floors, the windows provide a spectacular view of the surrounding buildings in the Marais and the Hôtel Salé luxurious sculpture garden.  The colored panels highlight the view outside, catalyzing the beautiful architecture surrounding the building in exotic and uplifting tones--green, blue, red, yellow, and pink.  Combined with a beautiful day, it makes for great pictures, even between the pictures you paid 6E to see (Picasso's, that is).

Truly a photographer's delight.

 

scènes autour de la seine

Pictures of things I saw.  Tourist after all.

f(art)

So many museums, so much art, and I spent half an hour walking around a basketball court taking pictures of graffiti ('Tony Parker -- he is ze best player in ze werld, yes?").  Right next to the Eiffel Tower, amidst luxury hotels and administrative-looking buildings, there is also an enormous parking lot.  Well, it's really just an open dirt lot.  I don't know why it's there, but the f(art) was pretty good.

trop bouffé

Yeah, I spend a lot of time eating.

And looking at, photographing, and tasting food.

Expect more vacuous shit like this. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

L'Inauguration at Harry's Bar

Just pretend that this is not weeks overdue.  I am somewhat disappointed that I haven't gotten to experience the changeover in 'the states' since the inauguration, but on the other hand, the French perception of the inauguration and more generally the new president is interesting, to say the least.  Not unlike many Obama supporters chez nous, many Parisians love Barack Obama almost blindly.  Last summer, he drew a crowd of over half a million Berliners, and that was no isolated incident.  Obviously, this level of enthusiasm is in large part due to the overwhelming dislike for ze late president boosh, but it is also, like Facebook and Gossip Girl, very cool to like Barack.  I mean, yeah, the cult of personality is overwhelming and speaks nothing to his ideologies/policies/anything, but nonetheless, for once I actually feel like the masses might not be too far off the mark.  

Shuffling back a few weeks... I figured that the most cliché, the most ridiculous place to watch the inauguration would be Harry's Bar, the legendary American bar that has seen the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Humphrey Bogart, and now, Jacob Levi.  Yeah, quel cliché.  I know. 

I was literally the last person allowed in the bar before it was officially 'full.'  Needless to say, it was filled to the brim with lush Americans vacationing in Paris.  White wine and champagne everywhere.  A few Parisians joined in the commotion, seemingly just to take part in the spectacle.  Major news networks from France and Germany stuck their cameras in too, if only to get a recognizable backdrop for events taking place across the ocean.  If you happen to watch French/German TV on a nightly basis, there is a decent chance you saw my big head of hair in a few shots.     

Sure, Harry's looks like a 20's hangout for ex-pats with Ivy League degrees and a habit for binging.  It probably was. Now it's where bougie Americans watch the inauguration.  But then again, that is exactly what I expected, and most Americans in Paris are bougie vacationers.

On the other hand, I admit that Obama's opening address as President of the United States was both inspiring and meaningful (eek).  I hate to say things like that.  But, as many of us will agree, even watching the speech was an experience not soon forgotten.

Of all the 7.50E cocktails I've had at bars around this city, my Martini at Harry's was probably the only drink I actually felt justified paying.