As I said in my previous post, the French gym that I have joined has workout and audio-visual equipment that is much more modern and fancy than anything at New York Sports.
Here are some of the things that New York Sports has that the French gym does not:
--Generous towel service (they hide them behind the counter, though you can get one if you ask)
--Hooks in the lockers to hang up your clothes (you are expected to bring your own hangers)
--Lips on the elliptical machines to hold a magazine or newspaper
--Curtains or doors on the shower stalls
--Adjustable-temperature water in the shower stalls
--Soap and shampoo in the shower stalls
--Water fountains in the gym (bottled water is for sale at the desk)
That last omission strikes me as a bit unhealthy.
I've decided that I'm just going to go back home after the gym and shower, then head out to work. I tried that this morning and the timing worked out relatively well, though starting in about a month when summer time ends, it may be more difficult as our daily conference call with Hong Kong will move to 9:30 instead of 10:30.
Plus, going home will allow me to shave, and dress and primp better, in other words to be more French.
And that's what it's all about, non?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
German Charm and Italian Efficiency?
The French are, ethnically, descended from a mixture of Romans and Germans, and in my sourer moments here I imagine that they inherited the worst traits of both: an Italian love for pointlessly tangled bureaucratic rules, combined with a German insistence on sticking to those rules.
Case in point: the monthly Metrocard, or Navigo as it's called here.
A quick review of how it works in New York: You go to a machine in any subway station, stick in your credit card or a bunch of $20 bills, and walk away with a card good for 30 days' unlimited travel. Yes, the machines are sometimes broken, and swiping the card is a bit finicky, but by and large it works well, for visitors and residents alike.
Here's how it works in Paris:
First, you need to get your picture taken -- it's considered fraud to lend your Navigo to anyone else, so you get a personalized one with your picture. Less than 100k in size, please, and framed correctly as an ID photo.
Then you fill out a short form online, attach your picture to it and send it in. The form asks for basically just your name and address, but it has to be an address in France.
About a week later you get your card in the mail.
The next step is to wait for the end of the month. Navigo cards cover the calendar month, not just any 30-day period, so if you're not about to start a calendar month, you're out of luck. (You can, however, charge it by the week at a slightly higher price to get you to the end of the month.)
Now you have to charge it. Find the machines which are plentiful in any station, insert your card and discover that they only accept credit cards with a certain type of chip in them, which of course French cards have and American cards don't. And they don't take cash; in fact I have never seen a machine of any type in France that accepts paper money.
So then you have to find the staffed ticket booth -- only bigger subway stations have them, and usually only at one entrance, which is not always signed -- and hand the lady inside your Navigo and 55 euros, and she will process it for you.
Other than that, no problem.
(Let me add that there are plenty of moments when you feel that the French inherited the best traits of both: German love for and facility with high-tech, and Italian love for good food, fashion and art. But this is not a moment when I'm feeling it.)
Case in point: the monthly Metrocard, or Navigo as it's called here.
A quick review of how it works in New York: You go to a machine in any subway station, stick in your credit card or a bunch of $20 bills, and walk away with a card good for 30 days' unlimited travel. Yes, the machines are sometimes broken, and swiping the card is a bit finicky, but by and large it works well, for visitors and residents alike.
Here's how it works in Paris:
First, you need to get your picture taken -- it's considered fraud to lend your Navigo to anyone else, so you get a personalized one with your picture. Less than 100k in size, please, and framed correctly as an ID photo.
Then you fill out a short form online, attach your picture to it and send it in. The form asks for basically just your name and address, but it has to be an address in France.
About a week later you get your card in the mail.
The next step is to wait for the end of the month. Navigo cards cover the calendar month, not just any 30-day period, so if you're not about to start a calendar month, you're out of luck. (You can, however, charge it by the week at a slightly higher price to get you to the end of the month.)
Now you have to charge it. Find the machines which are plentiful in any station, insert your card and discover that they only accept credit cards with a certain type of chip in them, which of course French cards have and American cards don't. And they don't take cash; in fact I have never seen a machine of any type in France that accepts paper money.
So then you have to find the staffed ticket booth -- only bigger subway stations have them, and usually only at one entrance, which is not always signed -- and hand the lady inside your Navigo and 55 euros, and she will process it for you.
Other than that, no problem.
(Let me add that there are plenty of moments when you feel that the French inherited the best traits of both: German love for and facility with high-tech, and Italian love for good food, fashion and art. But this is not a moment when I'm feeling it.)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Rereading the last post, I'm not quite sure it captured how intensely social the French are, so I want to expand on that.
They are profoundly social, to the point where it is rare indeed to see a single person at a cafe or restaurant. And when there is a single person, I'd bet there's a pretty good chance he's a tourist or visitor, like me.
The cafes themselves are an institution that has no real parallel in the United States. Rows of seats all face the street, and are typically occupied by social groups of more than two people -- sometimes families, but more often groups of friends. They may order coffee, or alcohol, or light meals (there's a standard menu of salads and sandwiches that every cafe seems to offer), but the main point is to sit there, talk and people-watch.
If you want to socialize with your friends like that in Chelsea or the West Village, your options are generally to go to a restaurant at mealtime and order something resembling a full meal, or to go to a bar, but only after they open (typically no earlier than 5, sometimes later).
The happy hours at Cafe Cox and Open Cafe seem to be an extension of this social phenomenon. There is nothing like it in New York, except for Low Tea on Fire Island. Which is a good comparison, actually, because on Fire Island people actually break out of their New York rush and slow down and make time to socialize.
It's one of the things I like about the French, even if it's a phenomenon to which outsiders really aren't invited.
They are profoundly social, to the point where it is rare indeed to see a single person at a cafe or restaurant. And when there is a single person, I'd bet there's a pretty good chance he's a tourist or visitor, like me.
The cafes themselves are an institution that has no real parallel in the United States. Rows of seats all face the street, and are typically occupied by social groups of more than two people -- sometimes families, but more often groups of friends. They may order coffee, or alcohol, or light meals (there's a standard menu of salads and sandwiches that every cafe seems to offer), but the main point is to sit there, talk and people-watch.
If you want to socialize with your friends like that in Chelsea or the West Village, your options are generally to go to a restaurant at mealtime and order something resembling a full meal, or to go to a bar, but only after they open (typically no earlier than 5, sometimes later).
The happy hours at Cafe Cox and Open Cafe seem to be an extension of this social phenomenon. There is nothing like it in New York, except for Low Tea on Fire Island. Which is a good comparison, actually, because on Fire Island people actually break out of their New York rush and slow down and make time to socialize.
It's one of the things I like about the French, even if it's a phenomenon to which outsiders really aren't invited.
Paris nightlife, part 2
My neighborhood has probably more than a dozen gay bars, if you define gay bar as a place that consciously sets out to attract gay people through a cute name, rainbow flag in the window or whatever. And there are also several cafes, standard Parisian-style places that for whatever reason seem to have been adopted by The Gays.
But as far as I can tell, only three places really seem to count.
There is the happy-hour scene at Cafe Cox and Open Cafe, and then there is Raidd, which I wrote about last week.
I pass Cafe Cox every evening on my way home from work and it always seems to have a crowd, every night of the week:
This picture, taken around 7 p.m., actually shows a comparatively light crowd for the place, which tends to peak around 9 p.m. I'm not quite sure why, frankly; it's a bare-bones bar that tends to attract a somewhat hard-bitten, 30s-to-40s crowd.
At the other end of the same block is Open Cafe, which gets crowded at similar hours but is a nicer place and attracts a more diverse crowd, including younger cuties:
Again, this picture was taken relatively early in the evening while it was still light out.
Both Cox and Open are purely social scenes, where people go with their friends for a drink. Not cruisy in the least.
Raidd, which is about a block away from these two places, is more of a cruise scene and tends to peak later. While there were a few people outside when I took this picture, inside it was completely empty; it doesn't start to fill up until about 10:30 but by midnight often has a line outside. Friday night seems to be the busiest, in my so-far limited experience here:
I'm pretty sure no other place in the Marais is packing them in, but I also haven't found the dance scene yet, and there must be one. So stay tuned ...
But as far as I can tell, only three places really seem to count.
There is the happy-hour scene at Cafe Cox and Open Cafe, and then there is Raidd, which I wrote about last week.
I pass Cafe Cox every evening on my way home from work and it always seems to have a crowd, every night of the week:
This picture, taken around 7 p.m., actually shows a comparatively light crowd for the place, which tends to peak around 9 p.m. I'm not quite sure why, frankly; it's a bare-bones bar that tends to attract a somewhat hard-bitten, 30s-to-40s crowd.
At the other end of the same block is Open Cafe, which gets crowded at similar hours but is a nicer place and attracts a more diverse crowd, including younger cuties:
Again, this picture was taken relatively early in the evening while it was still light out.
Both Cox and Open are purely social scenes, where people go with their friends for a drink. Not cruisy in the least.
Raidd, which is about a block away from these two places, is more of a cruise scene and tends to peak later. While there were a few people outside when I took this picture, inside it was completely empty; it doesn't start to fill up until about 10:30 but by midnight often has a line outside. Friday night seems to be the busiest, in my so-far limited experience here:
I'm pretty sure no other place in the Marais is packing them in, but I also haven't found the dance scene yet, and there must be one. So stay tuned ...
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Res Ipsa Loquitur, part 1
Seen in my neighborhood tonight:
As most of you know, I'm normally a sucker for this sort of thing, but Hector Fonseca and Amanda Lepore aren't exactly people I would schlep all the way across town for (and this place is a schlep from where I live). Still, we'll see.
Two translations:
"Res Ipsa Loquitur" is Latin for "The thing speaks for itself."
The French writing surrounding Fonseca's name declares that after Peter Rauhofer and Victor Calderone, he is the biggest circuit-party DJ in America.
Indeed.
As most of you know, I'm normally a sucker for this sort of thing, but Hector Fonseca and Amanda Lepore aren't exactly people I would schlep all the way across town for (and this place is a schlep from where I live). Still, we'll see.
Two translations:
"Res Ipsa Loquitur" is Latin for "The thing speaks for itself."
The French writing surrounding Fonseca's name declares that after Peter Rauhofer and Victor Calderone, he is the biggest circuit-party DJ in America.
Indeed.
The Gym, part 1
I broke down and joined a gym today.
I had been wanting and dreading it at the same time. Wanting because ... well, when you are eating French food for six months, you have to work it off somehow. Dreading because there isn't a gym culture here, and also of course the ordeal of signing up for it in French.
I studied French for five years in high school and college; I read it perfectly well. But it is taking longer than I expected to truly get my ear back. Part of the problem is that, when I don't understand something, I want the person to repeat herself more slowly and clearly. Instead, as soon as it is obvious that I haven't understood something, she switches to English, which is NOT what I need right now.
(Those of you who knew France in the old days would be astonished at the widespread facility with English now.)
Anyway, so it turned out that the staffer at the gym was the exception to what I just wrote: she spoke only French but we were able to understand each other perfectly, once I realized that even though it says "Fitness Club" right there on the sign of the gym, the French actually call it a "salle du sport":
After that, the only thing that stumped me was the word for "padlock" at the very end -- "cadenas," when I had learned it as "serrure."
The gym itself is ... well, the equipment looks superb, but it is tiny, crowded and a bit expensive (550 euros, or $800, for six months). Paris doesn't have many gyms, though, so you take what you can get. This is the only gym in my neighborhood (10 minutes walk from my apartment), which I'm told makes it de facto the gay gym for the city, but it didn't look too too gay this morning.
I'm going to try to beat the crowds by getting there right at the opening at 8 a.m., which will also allow me to get to work by 10, which is about the right time to show up anyway. We shall see. Hopefully the late-rising habits of Parisians will apply even to the gym-goers. Stay tuned.
Oh, and I forgot to mention: everything in Paris seems to be next to a landmark, and the gym is too. Across the street is the Pompidou Centre, the city's modern-art museum and a famous work of contemporary architecture in its own right:
I had been wanting and dreading it at the same time. Wanting because ... well, when you are eating French food for six months, you have to work it off somehow. Dreading because there isn't a gym culture here, and also of course the ordeal of signing up for it in French.
I studied French for five years in high school and college; I read it perfectly well. But it is taking longer than I expected to truly get my ear back. Part of the problem is that, when I don't understand something, I want the person to repeat herself more slowly and clearly. Instead, as soon as it is obvious that I haven't understood something, she switches to English, which is NOT what I need right now.
(Those of you who knew France in the old days would be astonished at the widespread facility with English now.)
Anyway, so it turned out that the staffer at the gym was the exception to what I just wrote: she spoke only French but we were able to understand each other perfectly, once I realized that even though it says "Fitness Club" right there on the sign of the gym, the French actually call it a "salle du sport":
After that, the only thing that stumped me was the word for "padlock" at the very end -- "cadenas," when I had learned it as "serrure."
The gym itself is ... well, the equipment looks superb, but it is tiny, crowded and a bit expensive (550 euros, or $800, for six months). Paris doesn't have many gyms, though, so you take what you can get. This is the only gym in my neighborhood (10 minutes walk from my apartment), which I'm told makes it de facto the gay gym for the city, but it didn't look too too gay this morning.
I'm going to try to beat the crowds by getting there right at the opening at 8 a.m., which will also allow me to get to work by 10, which is about the right time to show up anyway. We shall see. Hopefully the late-rising habits of Parisians will apply even to the gym-goers. Stay tuned.
Oh, and I forgot to mention: everything in Paris seems to be next to a landmark, and the gym is too. Across the street is the Pompidou Centre, the city's modern-art museum and a famous work of contemporary architecture in its own right:
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Picnicking among the ruins
Paris is not known for Roman ruins; it was a relatively insignificant place during Roman days. But there is this arena, on a side street behind an apartment building on the Left Bank. And while tourists don't generally seek it out (nor should they), the locals love it as a picnic spot ...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Cleanliness is next to ...
So far, I've been pleasantly surprised by most of the prices I've encountered.
Even with the dollar on life support, grocery store food and public transportation are cheaper here than in New York. For example, duck breasts are about half the price per pound here, and a ride on the subway costs just $1.60 if you buy a discounted packet of 10 tickets.
Restaurant meals look expensive, but at around 30 euros, or $45, they are actually quite comparable to meals of similar quality in New York once you remember that tax and tip are included in the price here.
I'm sure gasoline is far more expensive but I haven't actually seen a gas station yet since I live in the city center where there are none.
And then there's dry cleaning.
The range seems to be from 5 to 10 euros -- that's $7.50 to $15 -- to dry-clean a shirt.
One shirt.
My boss told me he just spent 93 euros to dryclean a few shirts, a suit and a tie. He is thinking of taking up ironing.
And this, in a city that prides itself on being a capital of fashion ... ?
Even with the dollar on life support, grocery store food and public transportation are cheaper here than in New York. For example, duck breasts are about half the price per pound here, and a ride on the subway costs just $1.60 if you buy a discounted packet of 10 tickets.
Restaurant meals look expensive, but at around 30 euros, or $45, they are actually quite comparable to meals of similar quality in New York once you remember that tax and tip are included in the price here.
I'm sure gasoline is far more expensive but I haven't actually seen a gas station yet since I live in the city center where there are none.
And then there's dry cleaning.
The range seems to be from 5 to 10 euros -- that's $7.50 to $15 -- to dry-clean a shirt.
One shirt.
My boss told me he just spent 93 euros to dryclean a few shirts, a suit and a tie. He is thinking of taking up ironing.
And this, in a city that prides itself on being a capital of fashion ... ?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I cooked!
Like everything in France, it seems, cooking dinner is a little more difficult than it should be. The main problem (aside from the inadequacy of the kitchen in my apartment) is the closing hours of food shops.
I don't generally get out of work until sometime between 7p and 8p, and then have a half-hour commute home. At that point the basic grocery stores and the bread bakeries (boulangeries, they're called here) are still open, but the butchers, fishmongers, vegetable stands etc. have long since closed.
So you have to stock up on the weekend. And this weekend I was able to get chanterelles at $7 a pound (between 1/3 and 1/4 the normal price in New York, since they're in season), which I cooked up with a veal chop, frisee salad, bread from the nearby bakery and a bottle of Savigny-les-Beaune (a mid-level red Burgundy).
All I needed was someone to share it with ...
I don't generally get out of work until sometime between 7p and 8p, and then have a half-hour commute home. At that point the basic grocery stores and the bread bakeries (boulangeries, they're called here) are still open, but the butchers, fishmongers, vegetable stands etc. have long since closed.
So you have to stock up on the weekend. And this weekend I was able to get chanterelles at $7 a pound (between 1/3 and 1/4 the normal price in New York, since they're in season), which I cooked up with a veal chop, frisee salad, bread from the nearby bakery and a bottle of Savigny-les-Beaune (a mid-level red Burgundy).
All I needed was someone to share it with ...
The High Line, c'est ici
I've been greatly looking forward to the development of the High Line in New York, but it turns out they've already got one here in Paris. And it is lovely.
As in New York, it's an elevated former rail viaduct that has been turned into a linear park. It has been open for several years now and seems quite popular with Parisians of all ages. Here are some views:
There are some obvious differences from the one in New York, of course, starting with the fact that the "promenade plantee" runs through a middle-class residential neighborhood near the Gare de Lyon, not through an industrial wasteland as in New York's West Chelsea. Except for one or two modern apartment buildings, the Parisian one is completely disconnected from its surroundings, while plans are to weave the High Line tightly into the fabric of the neighborhood with some impressive modern architecture.
Overall, I think the New York project has a chance to be even more successful than this is. And what has already happened here seems to be a good omen.
As in New York, it's an elevated former rail viaduct that has been turned into a linear park. It has been open for several years now and seems quite popular with Parisians of all ages. Here are some views:
There are some obvious differences from the one in New York, of course, starting with the fact that the "promenade plantee" runs through a middle-class residential neighborhood near the Gare de Lyon, not through an industrial wasteland as in New York's West Chelsea. Except for one or two modern apartment buildings, the Parisian one is completely disconnected from its surroundings, while plans are to weave the High Line tightly into the fabric of the neighborhood with some impressive modern architecture.
Overall, I think the New York project has a chance to be even more successful than this is. And what has already happened here seems to be a good omen.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Like Anyplace Else ... Until It Isn't
Life in Paris is, regrettably, a lot like life everywhere else at times. You've got to clean the bathroom, go food shopping, wait for the cable guy, clean the bathroom. And don't get me started on dealing with the French bureaucracy; how you go about getting your monthly Metrocard here will make the subject of a whole other post, whenever I finally manage to get it.
But then you go out for a walk and, after just a few blocks, come upon something like this:
And you walk on some more and discover that on the left bank of the Seine they are having a festival featuring products of the south-west of France:
In this festival there are tastings of wine ...
... of ham ...
... and even of snails ...
And behind you is the cathedral of Notre Dame:
And suddenly it is all worth it.
But then you go out for a walk and, after just a few blocks, come upon something like this:
And you walk on some more and discover that on the left bank of the Seine they are having a festival featuring products of the south-west of France:
In this festival there are tastings of wine ...
... of ham ...
... and even of snails ...
And behind you is the cathedral of Notre Dame:
And suddenly it is all worth it.
Paris Nightlife 1: Return of the Incredible Shrinking Drink
Those of you who were on Fire Island this summer remember the Incredible Shrinking Drink. For those who weren't, well, somewhere around Pride, all the drinks at Tea magically shrank by about one-third (for the same high price), going from a reasonably-sized cocktail cup to the size of plastic cup you'd use at a child's birthday party.
Turns out they have something similar in Paris, although here it's not a shady thing.
Walk into RAIDD, one of the main bars in my neighborhood, the Marais, before 11p on a Friday night and order a beer and you'll get a half-liter -- about an American pint, or in other words quite a nice amount of beer -- for 3.90 euros, or about $5.50. (And what a pleasure it is to be able to buy a beer with two coins, even if said coins are worth $3 each.)
Order the same beer after 11 and you get half the amount for the same price.
It turns out that that is how they do their "happy hour" -- not by charging half the price, or by giving you a chip to get your second drink, but simply by giving you twice the drink for the same amount of money. This kind of culture I can get used to.
RAIDD is a nicer place by far than anywhere else I've been on this European trip. Continuing in the theme of Tiny European Bars, it's about the size of Barrage, decorated very much in the modern style with bright colors, mirrors and designed lighting. It draws a mixed crowd of French and expats/tourists; I overheard French and (mainly American) English in about equal amounts last night.
There is no dancing, alas, but there is a DJ playing quite good, mainstream dance music. Their gimmick is a shower stall with muscular dancers getting soaking wet: very Splash 1991.
And there's a back room, though it's a single small room, not an elaborate bathhouse-style installation as in Germany or Poland. It's advertised, quite openly, by projections on the video screen: "Basement Salon. 100% guys. 100% sex. Basement for guys only. (Toilets and coatcheck open to all.)"
And yet the backroom is clearly not the point of the place, which is, in the manner of any bar in Chelsea or Hell's Kitchen, primarily a place to meet your friends, have a few drinks, flirt with cute strangers, ogle the shower guy and listen to the music.
The only thing wrong with it, if wrong it is, is that it's a bit too American-style. So I'm going to explore some other, more French places later (possibly not till next week) and report on those in due course ...
Turns out they have something similar in Paris, although here it's not a shady thing.
Walk into RAIDD, one of the main bars in my neighborhood, the Marais, before 11p on a Friday night and order a beer and you'll get a half-liter -- about an American pint, or in other words quite a nice amount of beer -- for 3.90 euros, or about $5.50. (And what a pleasure it is to be able to buy a beer with two coins, even if said coins are worth $3 each.)
Order the same beer after 11 and you get half the amount for the same price.
It turns out that that is how they do their "happy hour" -- not by charging half the price, or by giving you a chip to get your second drink, but simply by giving you twice the drink for the same amount of money. This kind of culture I can get used to.
RAIDD is a nicer place by far than anywhere else I've been on this European trip. Continuing in the theme of Tiny European Bars, it's about the size of Barrage, decorated very much in the modern style with bright colors, mirrors and designed lighting. It draws a mixed crowd of French and expats/tourists; I overheard French and (mainly American) English in about equal amounts last night.
There is no dancing, alas, but there is a DJ playing quite good, mainstream dance music. Their gimmick is a shower stall with muscular dancers getting soaking wet: very Splash 1991.
And there's a back room, though it's a single small room, not an elaborate bathhouse-style installation as in Germany or Poland. It's advertised, quite openly, by projections on the video screen: "Basement Salon. 100% guys. 100% sex. Basement for guys only. (Toilets and coatcheck open to all.)"
And yet the backroom is clearly not the point of the place, which is, in the manner of any bar in Chelsea or Hell's Kitchen, primarily a place to meet your friends, have a few drinks, flirt with cute strangers, ogle the shower guy and listen to the music.
The only thing wrong with it, if wrong it is, is that it's a bit too American-style. So I'm going to explore some other, more French places later (possibly not till next week) and report on those in due course ...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Great Irony of 1683
(This post isn't about Paris, but does address a social issue common throughout Europe ... )
Cracow, Poland, was festooned last weekend with banners commemorating the 325th anniversary of the Battle of Vienna, when Polish and Austrian armies defeated the Turks and started the long decline of the Ottoman Empire, a decline whose effects are still felt today from Bosnia to Iraq.
But I couldn't help noticing an irony. See if you can spot it:
Yes, that's right: next to each of these banners (and many more) commemorating the expulsion of the Turks, is a kebab house.
I don't think there are pierogi houses in Istanbul.
So just who did win the battle, in the long run?
Cracow, Poland, was festooned last weekend with banners commemorating the 325th anniversary of the Battle of Vienna, when Polish and Austrian armies defeated the Turks and started the long decline of the Ottoman Empire, a decline whose effects are still felt today from Bosnia to Iraq.
But I couldn't help noticing an irony. See if you can spot it:
Yes, that's right: next to each of these banners (and many more) commemorating the expulsion of the Turks, is a kebab house.
I don't think there are pierogi houses in Istanbul.
So just who did win the battle, in the long run?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Nightlife in Berlin, Warsaw and Krakow
Ever since David Bowie glamorized it in the '70s, and extending through the Love Parade years in the '90s, Berlin has had the reputation of a great nightlife city. So Joey and I were really looking forward to going out there.
We didn't count on it being Black Party weekend.
Folsom Europe, the event is called, thought it's a couple of weeks ahead of Folsom San Francisco. We discovered it by accident, while looking for the bars and clubs in Berlin's Schoenefeld neighborhood. First we saw a few random leathermen, which didn't surprise me because I know that community is big in Berlin. Then we started seeing groups of them. Then we rounded a corner and saw at least 800 men in leather milling around in the street drinking beer from mobile beer stands that had been brought in for the occasion.
Not just ordinary leather either, but the type of wild thing you see at Black Party or Folsom: skinny young blond boys with zippers in the rear of their leather hot pants being led around on dog leashes by their masters in chaps, armbands and police hats. That sort of thing. (I wondered whether ordinary Berliners would bat an eyelash at this scene, but there were no ordinary Berliners to be seen, it being a cold and somewhat rainy night on a quiet side street.)
And we had left all our Black Party gear in New York. Sigh.
We did find a couple of bars with people dressed like us, in Lacoste and designer jeans, and frankly, they were fine, but nothing you couldn't find in New York, or even Portland. And they were somewhat empty, I presume because the Folsom event, like Black Party, probably drew many people away who would normally go to an ordinary bar or club and not a leather-specific one.
Our one dancing experience was at Connection, right on the street corner where the 800 were milling around. Inside was relatively empty. It turned out to be a very small space, about the size of the old Hush/Champs in New York, split evenly four ways into two bars, a lounge and a dance floor. Looking into the DJ booth revealed that there are now two skinny shaved-headed lesbian DJs in the world, one of whom can spin many varieties of music into a joyful whole. This one had only two speeds: hard looped techno, and hard looped techno with a thin layer of trance on top.
But it didn't really matter, because it became obvious that the dance floor, indeed the entire ground floor, was merely a life support system for the largest and most elaborate back room I have ever seen, in the basement. It was divided into stalls, one with a bathtub, another with a toilet, others with stools, most with fully closable doors; and larger areas for wandering and where porn was shown. I can only imagine that this was what bathhouses looked like in the '70s, except that then they wore towels rather than street clothes, and those bathhouses were full.
A few days later, we were in Warsaw and two straight women friends offered to take us out to see the gay bars there. Unfortunately, we could only get two clear references to gay bars, one of which was closed that Thursday night, the other was billed as men-only. So they took us to a few places they said were mixed. "Mixed" seemed to mean that they were populated partly by skinny beautiful college-age boys with sweaters neatly tied across their shoulders, who covertly sneaked glances at each other on the dance floor while bumping and grinding with the women in their party.
The last stop of our trip was in Krakow, and there we had the weirdest and most depressing experience. Lonely Planet had listed a bar on a major street just north of the Old Town, but gave the wrong address for it. When we finally found it, it turned out to be in the back of a courtyard whose entrance had a big sign saying "Furniture Store." Inside the courtyard there was no sign of a furniture store, but deep in a dark corner was a tiny buzzer labeled with the bar's name, Ciemnia. Buzz it and you are let in.
Inside, the bar turned out to be a repeat of Connection, minus the dance floor. A small bar and a huge, subdivided back room. And at midnight on a Friday night there were maybe 20 people present. A few gorgeous ones, to be sure. The Poles, like the Portuguese, seem to be a people whose young men are all beautiful until about age 28, and then all lose their looks quickly after that. Half the crowd fell into the young-and-pretty category. But they weren't interested in us, and we weren't interested in the back room, so we asked the bartender to recommend a place to dance.
He sent us to what he said was a brand-new club holding its opening night. It turned out to be a recently decommissioned movie theater, missing the seats but still with its sloping, sticky concrete floor. It still could have turned out well except that at maybe 75 people, this crowd was even smaller proportionate to the space than the crowd at Ciemnia. And of those 75, maybe 10 were identifiably gay, including a few of the beautiful blonds from Ciemnia and the male equivalent of a fag hag -- I nicknamed him the "dyke tyke" -- escorting three or four lesbians around. The dyke tyke was quite cute, and seemed to find me so as well; Joey had a boy making eyes at him; but there was too much empty space in the room for anything to happen (and the music was way too random, and by this time I was feeling the first effects of what would turn out to be a nasty case of food poisoning), so we left.
I wasn't quite sure when Paris would start to feel like home, but after that I was looking to get back to it.
This weekend will be my first full weekend here since the assignment began, and if the lingering traces of the food poisoning are gone by then, I'll give you my first report on the nightlife in the City of Light in a few days
We didn't count on it being Black Party weekend.
Folsom Europe, the event is called, thought it's a couple of weeks ahead of Folsom San Francisco. We discovered it by accident, while looking for the bars and clubs in Berlin's Schoenefeld neighborhood. First we saw a few random leathermen, which didn't surprise me because I know that community is big in Berlin. Then we started seeing groups of them. Then we rounded a corner and saw at least 800 men in leather milling around in the street drinking beer from mobile beer stands that had been brought in for the occasion.
Not just ordinary leather either, but the type of wild thing you see at Black Party or Folsom: skinny young blond boys with zippers in the rear of their leather hot pants being led around on dog leashes by their masters in chaps, armbands and police hats. That sort of thing. (I wondered whether ordinary Berliners would bat an eyelash at this scene, but there were no ordinary Berliners to be seen, it being a cold and somewhat rainy night on a quiet side street.)
And we had left all our Black Party gear in New York. Sigh.
We did find a couple of bars with people dressed like us, in Lacoste and designer jeans, and frankly, they were fine, but nothing you couldn't find in New York, or even Portland. And they were somewhat empty, I presume because the Folsom event, like Black Party, probably drew many people away who would normally go to an ordinary bar or club and not a leather-specific one.
Our one dancing experience was at Connection, right on the street corner where the 800 were milling around. Inside was relatively empty. It turned out to be a very small space, about the size of the old Hush/Champs in New York, split evenly four ways into two bars, a lounge and a dance floor. Looking into the DJ booth revealed that there are now two skinny shaved-headed lesbian DJs in the world, one of whom can spin many varieties of music into a joyful whole. This one had only two speeds: hard looped techno, and hard looped techno with a thin layer of trance on top.
But it didn't really matter, because it became obvious that the dance floor, indeed the entire ground floor, was merely a life support system for the largest and most elaborate back room I have ever seen, in the basement. It was divided into stalls, one with a bathtub, another with a toilet, others with stools, most with fully closable doors; and larger areas for wandering and where porn was shown. I can only imagine that this was what bathhouses looked like in the '70s, except that then they wore towels rather than street clothes, and those bathhouses were full.
A few days later, we were in Warsaw and two straight women friends offered to take us out to see the gay bars there. Unfortunately, we could only get two clear references to gay bars, one of which was closed that Thursday night, the other was billed as men-only. So they took us to a few places they said were mixed. "Mixed" seemed to mean that they were populated partly by skinny beautiful college-age boys with sweaters neatly tied across their shoulders, who covertly sneaked glances at each other on the dance floor while bumping and grinding with the women in their party.
The last stop of our trip was in Krakow, and there we had the weirdest and most depressing experience. Lonely Planet had listed a bar on a major street just north of the Old Town, but gave the wrong address for it. When we finally found it, it turned out to be in the back of a courtyard whose entrance had a big sign saying "Furniture Store." Inside the courtyard there was no sign of a furniture store, but deep in a dark corner was a tiny buzzer labeled with the bar's name, Ciemnia. Buzz it and you are let in.
Inside, the bar turned out to be a repeat of Connection, minus the dance floor. A small bar and a huge, subdivided back room. And at midnight on a Friday night there were maybe 20 people present. A few gorgeous ones, to be sure. The Poles, like the Portuguese, seem to be a people whose young men are all beautiful until about age 28, and then all lose their looks quickly after that. Half the crowd fell into the young-and-pretty category. But they weren't interested in us, and we weren't interested in the back room, so we asked the bartender to recommend a place to dance.
He sent us to what he said was a brand-new club holding its opening night. It turned out to be a recently decommissioned movie theater, missing the seats but still with its sloping, sticky concrete floor. It still could have turned out well except that at maybe 75 people, this crowd was even smaller proportionate to the space than the crowd at Ciemnia. And of those 75, maybe 10 were identifiably gay, including a few of the beautiful blonds from Ciemnia and the male equivalent of a fag hag -- I nicknamed him the "dyke tyke" -- escorting three or four lesbians around. The dyke tyke was quite cute, and seemed to find me so as well; Joey had a boy making eyes at him; but there was too much empty space in the room for anything to happen (and the music was way too random, and by this time I was feeling the first effects of what would turn out to be a nasty case of food poisoning), so we left.
I wasn't quite sure when Paris would start to feel like home, but after that I was looking to get back to it.
This weekend will be my first full weekend here since the assignment began, and if the lingering traces of the food poisoning are gone by then, I'll give you my first report on the nightlife in the City of Light in a few days
Paris, 7 a.m.: Ghost Town
I got up early today to spend time with the people who work the early shift at my office. Wow, what a surprise.
Paris at 7 a.m. is almost totally dark. The sun hadn't risen yet (and remember it's still, technically, summer). My neighborhood was a ghost town. The only people on the street were a couple of street cleaners and some cafe owners who were just unlocking their doors and starting to set chairs on the sidewalk.
And these are the people who serve breakfast.
My colleagues said this is something unique to Paris -- Londoners, Romans and Germans are all out and about by 7 a.m. -- but couldn't explain it. Although it might have something to do with the darkness; Paris is pretty far west in its time zone and so dawns and sunsets occur later on the clock.
The morning rush hour seems to hit its peak here between 9 and 10 a.m., and the evening rush around 7 p.m.
In New York my daily routine was to go to the gym around 7:30 in the morning, before work. I had hoped to do that here but have been having trouble finding a gym that opens that early, which I figured had something to do with the French work ethic.
But maybe they just realize they wouldn't have any customers.
Paris at 7 a.m. is almost totally dark. The sun hadn't risen yet (and remember it's still, technically, summer). My neighborhood was a ghost town. The only people on the street were a couple of street cleaners and some cafe owners who were just unlocking their doors and starting to set chairs on the sidewalk.
And these are the people who serve breakfast.
My colleagues said this is something unique to Paris -- Londoners, Romans and Germans are all out and about by 7 a.m. -- but couldn't explain it. Although it might have something to do with the darkness; Paris is pretty far west in its time zone and so dawns and sunsets occur later on the clock.
The morning rush hour seems to hit its peak here between 9 and 10 a.m., and the evening rush around 7 p.m.
In New York my daily routine was to go to the gym around 7:30 in the morning, before work. I had hoped to do that here but have been having trouble finding a gym that opens that early, which I figured had something to do with the French work ethic.
But maybe they just realize they wouldn't have any customers.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
On Vacation
I'll be on vacation until Sept. 16 and won't be posting here. Please come back after that for updates.
A "Classic" survives
The idea behind this blog was to tell you what it's like to live everyday life in Paris. So ...
If you're my age or older, you may remember a time when these things were common in the United States:
They vanished long ago on that side of the Pond, of course; people thought they were unsanitary, and in truth they were if the cloth jammed and couldn't be pulled down, which happened frequently.
But over here they are still very common. I'm not sure why -- inertia, maybe (which gets back to my previous post), or maybe they're perceived as more eco-friendly. Nonetheless if you're an American, this is one of the weird things about living here.
I do love the brand name on this one, though.
If you're my age or older, you may remember a time when these things were common in the United States:
They vanished long ago on that side of the Pond, of course; people thought they were unsanitary, and in truth they were if the cloth jammed and couldn't be pulled down, which happened frequently.
But over here they are still very common. I'm not sure why -- inertia, maybe (which gets back to my previous post), or maybe they're perceived as more eco-friendly. Nonetheless if you're an American, this is one of the weird things about living here.
I do love the brand name on this one, though.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Happy Labor Day
It is a strange feeling to be working on Labor Day.
Today is a regular workday in Paris -- in fact, as this Times piece discusses, the first regular workday of the fall season. As such it's quite an event: everybody greets each other with "Welcome back" and questions about how they spent their vacations (most of my co-workers seem to have gone to their second homes in Burgundy). The subway was jammed this morning for the first time in several weeks.
And of course, there are "rentree" sales in all the stores. Or there were last month, at least; I haven't passed by yet to see if they are still on. Perhaps the sales take place only during August to keep down the number of customers.
But even though it's a normal workday here, my e-mail inboxes are pretty much silent even at this hour, when they would normally be filling up with notes and replies as people wake up in the U.S. And at our daily conference call with New York, someone was in charge who usually never has that role. It took a few seconds to figure it out.
Happy Labor Day, all you back home. Hope you enjoyed the beach, or wherever you were.
Next year I'll appreciate it all the more.
Today is a regular workday in Paris -- in fact, as this Times piece discusses, the first regular workday of the fall season. As such it's quite an event: everybody greets each other with "Welcome back" and questions about how they spent their vacations (most of my co-workers seem to have gone to their second homes in Burgundy). The subway was jammed this morning for the first time in several weeks.
And of course, there are "rentree" sales in all the stores. Or there were last month, at least; I haven't passed by yet to see if they are still on. Perhaps the sales take place only during August to keep down the number of customers.
But even though it's a normal workday here, my e-mail inboxes are pretty much silent even at this hour, when they would normally be filling up with notes and replies as people wake up in the U.S. And at our daily conference call with New York, someone was in charge who usually never has that role. It took a few seconds to figure it out.
Happy Labor Day, all you back home. Hope you enjoyed the beach, or wherever you were.
Next year I'll appreciate it all the more.
The New and the Old
I'm back in Paris, after a trip that raised more than a few questions in my mind.
In Hong Kong, you get from downtown to the airport on a fast, high-tech train. You can check your bags in for your flight at the train station downtown so you don't have to drag them through the airport -- although since most airlines have only one check-in counter downtown, this can make for a long wait.
Hong Kong's airport is a gleaming, glass-and-metal marvel. But the new Air France terminal at Charles de Gaulle is even more striking:
We'll skip over for now the fact that this building collapsed four years ago, killing four people, in an accident that investigators said may have been due to the very daringness of its design. It's a truly extraordinary building, proof that when the French set their minds to it they can still do world-leading work.
Then you leave this landmark and get on a rather shabby, conventional mass transit train, which deposits you deep beneath the city center in an unspeakably ugly, stifling sub-basement that was done in '70s concrete monolith style and seemingly hasn't been maintained since. To get out to the street or connect to a subway line, you need to drag your suitcase up a couple flights of stairs -- escalators are in short supply here. It's hardly a grand entrance to one of the world's grand cities.
And yet the French had their airport train decades before Hong Kong (or most U.S. cities) even thought about building one. So should they be commended for their foresight? Or criticized because they haven't kept it up with the times?
The fact is that maintenance or upgrading existing facilities is much less glamorous than new construction, something the Chinese will eventually find out. In the meantime, I thought I was moving to a Europe that had fabulous mass transit, but now I'm a bit embarrassed at what it has become compared to what you see in Asia.
On the other hand, you can drink the water in Paris -- even in the land of Evian and Perrier, it is quite normal to order tap water in a restaurant -- while one is advised not to do so in Hong Kong.
And that makes life much easier on days when you don't have to go to the airport.
In Hong Kong, you get from downtown to the airport on a fast, high-tech train. You can check your bags in for your flight at the train station downtown so you don't have to drag them through the airport -- although since most airlines have only one check-in counter downtown, this can make for a long wait.
Hong Kong's airport is a gleaming, glass-and-metal marvel. But the new Air France terminal at Charles de Gaulle is even more striking:
We'll skip over for now the fact that this building collapsed four years ago, killing four people, in an accident that investigators said may have been due to the very daringness of its design. It's a truly extraordinary building, proof that when the French set their minds to it they can still do world-leading work.
Then you leave this landmark and get on a rather shabby, conventional mass transit train, which deposits you deep beneath the city center in an unspeakably ugly, stifling sub-basement that was done in '70s concrete monolith style and seemingly hasn't been maintained since. To get out to the street or connect to a subway line, you need to drag your suitcase up a couple flights of stairs -- escalators are in short supply here. It's hardly a grand entrance to one of the world's grand cities.
And yet the French had their airport train decades before Hong Kong (or most U.S. cities) even thought about building one. So should they be commended for their foresight? Or criticized because they haven't kept it up with the times?
The fact is that maintenance or upgrading existing facilities is much less glamorous than new construction, something the Chinese will eventually find out. In the meantime, I thought I was moving to a Europe that had fabulous mass transit, but now I'm a bit embarrassed at what it has become compared to what you see in Asia.
On the other hand, you can drink the water in Paris -- even in the land of Evian and Perrier, it is quite normal to order tap water in a restaurant -- while one is advised not to do so in Hong Kong.
And that makes life much easier on days when you don't have to go to the airport.
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