French Libraries

So I don’t have much familiarity with French public libraries, mainly because I find the BN to be enough of a soul destroying experience that I have no desire to come back for more and try other options. Despite that, I've just learned some pretty incredible details regarding the French library system and how it works. French librarians are so...well, French. Get ready, American logic will get you nowhere on this one.

The background story is that I'm involved in this PhD workshop on the sociology of culture, and each month one member of the group presents his/her dissertation research. I'm actually up for the April presentation. This month's presentation is tonight, and the girl who is presenting is doing her work on the Paris public library system. We always read some sort of document in preparation for the presentation, and this time she gave us a chapter from her diss, which is on the "non-publics" of the Paris libraries (ie, who doesn't go and why). To get to the heart of the question, she looks at all the factors that might convince a certain population demographic that the library is not for them (the way the library is set up and the hours it's open, the kinds of books they have, etc). Anyway, the chapter is fascinating and very solidly researched, and even better, I learned sooooo much from it. Much of which is absolutely shocking. Here are my most salient discoveries (get ready, they're good):

1) There is an actual charter for French librarians that they are NOT ALLOWED to make book recommendations! Yeah, you read that right. WTF??? The justification for this is so incredibly French: according to the party line, reading is a distinctly personal and solitary endeavor, so what I like might not be the same as what you like. And since book selection should be pure and disinterested, it is not fair to the reader for a librarian to make a recommendation. The girl doing the project has all of these shocking citations from direct interviews with librarians where they're like, "of course we would never dream of suggesting a book, that's so unprofessional!" Needless to say, a few sociologists have conducted interviews with potential library patrons, and many people make the comment that they're overwhelmed by the selection and don't know what to do so they end up deciding that they're not smart enough to use the library. The symbolic violence of not making suggestions just reinforces the idea that if you don't already know at least a minimum about literature and what you like, then the library isn't for you. But even when people specifically ask for help on what to read, librarians aren't supposed to make a suggestion because that would impose their own views on the patron. Right.

2) The interior design of libraries are intentionally designed to discourage students from coming to work there or others from spending too much time. The only "good" kind of patron is the one who comes, browses, and checks out books (and thus increases circulation statistics). People who either come and pick up books to read in the library or else people who bring their own material to work are not considered good patrons. Because space can be limited, they don't want squatters. So god forbid you come to actually work in a public library!

3) Editions. The researcher also looked at what kinds of editions the libraries buy for classics where multiple versions are available. There are of course cheap paperback versions, fancy scholarly editions, and often student editions with helpful footnotes for younger or weaker readers. And guess which ones the libraries buy, almost exclusively. You got it, the fancy scholarly editions. So a random middle schooler or less educated adult who is curious to read Zola, for example, only has access to a fancy version with scholarly prefaces and essays and stuff like that. Talk about intimidating. Thus many people self-select themselves right out of the classics, since they think those books aren't accessible. These librarians even specifically said that they don't buy student editions because that's not their responsibility, school libraries should have them. The thought never crosses their minds that some adult readers might appreciate some reading help too.

4) No pulp fiction. The researcher sat in on an acquisitions committee meeting, and one book was particularly trashed. The evaluator said it was "indigne d'une bibliothèque," or "unfit for a library." She of course took a look at it and was expecting something scandalously bad, but she said she was not at all offended. She found it to be a fairly average work of regionalist historical fiction, not exceptionally well written but also not exceptionally poorly written either. She went online to look at other readers' comments on it on bookseller sites like amazon, and they were quite positive. So for readers who like that kind of book, it was considered quite good. Librarians may not make suggestions to patrons, but when they select books for their collections, they apparently apply their own (university-trained) conceptions of what makes great literature. So I guess you won't be finding Twilight in a French library system, HAHA. Sociologists have made the point that perhaps librarians should be thinking differently, that just about any reading is better than no reading at all, but apparently the French public libraries only want to provide their patrons with books of a minimum (and relatively high) quality. Libraries aren't for you if you don't like high-brow reading!

So yeah, there you have it. I just had to post this because it strikes me as so ridiculous, haha. I can't wait for the presentation tonight, I'll be really curious to hear what else I learn!

Freeing Sylvain

As I feared, freeing Sylvain from the broken lock was no mean feat. How could it have been? It is logically impossible for anything to be easy in this country. Obviously.

I managed to borrow some small but strong wire cutters from a friend yesterday, so I arrived at the pool a few minutes before 7 to test them out. It was immediately clear that they weren't going to do the trick, though. So I went and swam my laps, then when I came out I asked the girl at the front desk if they might have some stronger lock cutters. She was super nice and called the technician, who was also really nice and brought me what he had, which was just a bit stronger than the pair I had. No luck.

It was at this point that I ran yet again into an interesting cultural difference, I think, that I've seen before in other contexts. The building manager was there when I returned the wire cutters, so he asked what the problem was. I explain about the bike, and he was like, "why don't you just take the metro home?" haha. I was like, "yeah, but that won't solve my problem!" I was getting ready to make fun of him in my head when it became clear what he meant, as he was like, "no, but go home and find a friend to help you and come back with the materials and manpower you need." Here's the interesting cultural difference: it's fairly widely accepted that it's difficult to break in and make French friends. My theory on this is that French people seem to make their friends when they're young, in grade school, in their little towns (or in their neighborhood of Paris). By the time they're 20-somethings, most of their friendships are set. So when you meet at, say, the university, you make acquaintances that you chat with casually before class, but you tend not to make lifelong friends this "late" in life. The ENS is kind of an exception to that rule, I think, because it's such a cloistered and elite community.

In any case, this sort of bit me in the ass a few separate times with the bike issue, because a bunch of different people were like, "but just go ask a friend to help." This made me realize what a network of friendships people have here, in the sense that people always know someone who can bail you out of trouble in whatever contexts. They were kind of surprised when I was like, "yeah I don't know anyone who would have a giant lock cutter." I think they just naturally assumed that of course everyone would have a friend who would know how to do that. I was sitting there like, "I'm a foreigner who's only been here for 6 months, how the hell would I know someone like that?" I was nice about it but did tell the building manager that I had indeed taken the metro home on Saturday and asked around but that no one had what I needed. To explain the seriousness of the situation, I was like, "it's a strong lock, it needs a special tool." He was kind of abrupt and was like, "then call a specialist, that's really unlucky for you." Gee thanks.

I left the pool to see what else I could find and saw a neighboring hotel. I thought that was worth a shot, so I asked the woman at the front desk. She was super nice but said they only had small cutters. I asked where the nearest police branch was but it was quite a distance. So then I asked about the pompiers (firemen, who also serve as the 911 service here), and she gave me directions to get to the nearest firehouse. It was about 10 minutes away, which I figured was a bad start since they probably wouldn't just let me walk off with their cutters.

I got to the pompiers, and they were really, really rude. More than anything I think they didn't want to deal with it. I put on my charm as best as I could and explained the situation, and one guy was like, "we can't do that, we don't know it's your bike." I was like, "oh, I brought the bill and the certificate of authenticity with me to show that, and I have the key to the other lock." He was like, "that still doesn't prove it's your bike." WTF???? I was about to question it and ask what would prove it, and he quite literally cut me off and was like, "we save lives, not bikes. Goodbye." Thanks for nothing, asshole.

Next I went to a car dealership I saw on the street, one that had a maintenance department. I spoke to two people there who were very friendly, but again they only had smaller cutters.

Finally I decided to go in another direction where I saw construction workers, but it's a huge construction site and I couldn't get their attention (they were operating heavy machinery). I was about to throw in the towel and rethink my options when I came upon a nice apartment building with a doorman. I figured that was worth a shot too, and that's where I struck gold. Hallelujah, they had a GINORMOUS cutter and were very friendly about it. They even apologized that they weren't allowed to leave the building to come and help me. At that point I didn't care, I was just happy to have the tool I needed.

So I went over to the bike and worked on it for a bit and was definitely making progress but it wasn't totally easy. The big shears cut through the hard rubber casing and about half of the wires, but then I couldn't get the rest of it. So I was playing around with the big shears and then the little cutters I had, thinking that the little ones might be good for detail work. I was sitting there working at it (and making progress, but it was definitely effort), when a trash collector came by and was like, would you like some help? Turns out that two people working on it was just the trick, he held the little pliers while I twisted the two sides in opposite directions and we could hear the wires popping one by one. Still took a few minutes, but we could tell we were on the right track. He was pretty funny...besides being clearly tipsy and smelling rather strongly of what I would guess was cheap vodka, he was like, "well, I hope no one thinks we're stealing it!" I assured him I had the documentation to prove it was mine. Finally we broke through and gave a cheer and a high five and he went on his way. I went back to the apartment building and was like, "thank you sooooo much, I've been trying to figure out what to do for 4 days and you've totally saved my life!" The guard was like, "wow, not every day someone tells you that!" haha. And all this was before about 9 am. I got out of the pool around 8 and spent an hour running around before I got what I needed. By the time I got home at like 9:30, I felt like I'd already had a full day!

So, Sylvain is safely home and I already went out to get a new lock (with a key this time, not screwing around with codes anymore). The thought crosses my mind that if you're mad at someone and really want to inconvenience them, buying a cheap but thick lock and adding to their bike would be REALLY effective revenge. Don't worry, I don't have any plans to implement this idea, but it did strike me that it would be an exquisite inconvenience for whomever you do it to, haha.

My new hobby

So I realized this weekend that I hadn't updated about my new (old) hobby: swimming!

It's a complicated story, but it came to my attention recently that there's a pool in Paris with very low levels of chlorine. It's purified mostly with ozone, and you can't smell any sort of chlorine in it. Since my swimming career came to an inglorious end 12 years ago when I developed a sensitivity to chlorine, swimming hadn't been on my radar for years. But when I found out about this new pool, I was excited to try it out.

It's an olympic-size pool, and it's wonderful. Because it was recently renovated, the whole building is super snazzy, even has a retractable roof! I haven't been able to experience the retractable roof yet since we're still in the 30s here in Paris (bah), but I'm looking forward to the summer when it is open. yay!

The funniest part of the whole thing, I'd have to say, is the oh-so-typically French phenomenon of co-ed locker rooms! hahahaha. There are this little stalls where you can go to change, but then the lockers, bathrooms, and showers are all co-ed. Which is really quite annoying because then you're stuck showering with your bathing suit on (which everyone seems to do, I'm still waiting to see how long it takes before I come across the exhibitionist who doesn't). Otherwise, though, it doesn't really matter.

Actually, the other funny part: I don't know what sort of chemical reaction is going on or whether it's the ozone, the minimal chlorine, or something else, but there's something in this pool water that turns my hair into pincurls. Like, insanely so. It lends new credence to my standing joke that I feel like medusa with my curly hair. Now I basically have a fro, it sticks straight up! And it's super dry, I'm going to have to work on that. But the curls are fabulous, haha. Who would have guessed that going to the pool would improve one's hair?

In any case, I am totally fine in this pool and am thrilled to get back to swimming! And as I've found, it's sort of like riding a bike, my technique is coming back to me. I have to think about it a bit in terms of the stroke and the breathing, but overall I'm not as rusty as I expected to be. Yay! I've got a whole routine down now, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, right when the pool opens (7 am during the week, 9 am on the weekends). Because the one downside of this pool being among the nicest in the city is also that it's one of the most popular. But it seems to be ok at the crack of dawn.

So this Saturday I made my way over to the pool (and was particularly excited because it was reopening after being closed for two weeks). I swam my laps (so far I'm at a mile), got dressed and did my hair (sticking straight up as always) and went to bike home. Except that there was a fundamental problem: something went wrong with my lock and I couldn't get the damned thing off. It's a lock with a code, and I tried everything. Twisting the dials around, etc. Then of course I started second-guessing myself as to whether I had the right code, so I tried other variations of the numbers, etc. Finally I was so confused that I decided I would ditch the bike at the pool and think.

I came home and checked, and I was of course right on the code the first time. Obviously...I mean, I've been using this lock without a problem since I arrived, so of course I was right. But that doesn't negate the fact that the damn thing is stuck. I'm going to buy some WD-40 today and take it over there when I go for my swim tomorrow morning. If that doesn't work, I'm going to have to go on a search for both some lock cutters and probably a strong dude to help me bust the lock, haha. Because this thing is no joke, it's a serious lock. Figures things couldn't be easy, right? Talk about annoying. But the bike is stranded well the hell over in the 15th arrondissement until I can sweet-talk someone into helping me liberate it! Here's hoping the Wd-40 works, otherwise I'm going to have quite the adventure tomorrow...

Nothing like some total last-minute interview prep

So if we go back in time like three years, one of the main books that inspired my diss topic was this book called Vivre me tue by Paul Smaïl. It's kind of a stereotypical "young Arab man writing in French" kind of book, an autobiography full of denunciations of French racism and stuff like that. What sets it apart initially, at least, is that it's rather clever--the author clearly knows more about the western canon than most of the authors writing in this genre today. So the whole thing is written as a modernization of Moby Dick, with the author searching for the great white whale that is integration in France.

Anyway, Paul Smaïl wrote three more books (two more installments of his autobiography) and then a novel, before a VERY interesting detail was leaked: Paul Smaïl doesn't exist. He's actually a 60-year-old French white guy named Jack-Alain Léger. His book just happened to be impressively believable. Ask my mother, I bought the translation for her and made her read it without telling her, and she totally fell for it, haha.

This case is clearly fascinating for a number of reasons. First off, it proved that we as readers have stereotyped expectations of what "an Arab writing in French" should be talking about. The hoax proved rather directly that some sort of model exists, otherwise it wouldn't be available for recuperation/subversion. The other thing it demonstrated was how blind the press was, in terms of reading it at face-value and not really taking time to consider the literary merits of the book. All the reviews and stuff were about his discussions of integration, etc.

Anyway, it's kind of a long story of how I managed to track down this author two years ago, which is a good enough story that it would involve a whole separate entry (let me know if you'd like that story). The important thing, though, is that I did track him down and managed to meet with him when I was in France in Summer 2008. And he talked my ear off. For a good 2.5 hours. Yeah. And it was fascinating--kind of a mix of artistic naïveté (he didn't understand why the press attacked him so cruelly when the hoax was revealed, I was sitting there like, "well, isn't it clear, you made them look like a bunch of idiots?") and strange vendettas (he really has it out for Azouz Begag, which I actually might not be able to blame him for, given how Begag blew me off last fall). Perhaps the most interesting thing he told me was that he started the pseudonym project as a joke and really didn't think it would go anywhere, but then when the first book was such a huge success he was like, "oh shit, I guess I should ride this wave." Then he whipped together plans to write a few more books as Paul Smaïl. He never thought it would work so he hadn't planned for the future of the hoax.

So all that is background. The point of my story today is that I've finally reached the point of writing chapter 6, which is on this whole controversy. I hadn't contacted Léger in a while since I wasn't ready to interview him, but this morning I decided to whip off a quick note to him so that I could get the ball rolling. I got a reply a few hours later, telling me he has a serious neurological condition, that he can't use his right hand anymore, that he's suffering terribly (and there's no treatment nor effective painkillers), and that since he can't write anymore, he's basically sitting around miserably, that his body is shutting down. He concluded by saying he'd be willing to see me but that it has to be in the next few days because after that he's not sure he'll be around anymore. ouch.

How do you reply to that one? I immediately wrote back saying how sorry I was and that of course I didn't want to bother him, etc. Left it entirely up to him. He wrote back suggesting a meeting tomorrow at the same café we met at last time. I wasn't really expecting him to be in good enough condition for that, but whatever, I'll take it. He's definitely a drama queen, so who knows what the real situation is like. All I know is, I now have about a day to whip together an interview that has to count. Because it doesn't look like I'll be getting a second shot. weird weird weird. Fortunately the questions I have are generally pretty clear, so it should be that hard to get organized. Just wasn't quite expecting things to take this sort of turn...

Les Naufragés du Fol Espoir

So last night, thanks to Judy and her fabulous connections, Kari and I had free tickets to the new Théâtre du Soleil production, called Les Naufragés du Fol Espoir. The TdS is a very special group--they sort of live as a cult, almost, and they put on these sweeping fresco-type plays that they write and develop collaboratively. They don't even assign roles until the end; everyone gets together and brainstorms, then the director (Ariane Mnouchkine) figures out who will be doing what later on. This can be quite tricky, as it's such a big group that some of the actors are necessarily left on the sidelines, for example. But everyone has a job, as I will explain. And their shows are usually quite long. This one is 4 hours, and the one I saw in NYC last summer was 7.

In any case, the play is absolutely amazing. There's really no good way to translate the title. Literally I think my best shot is "drifting dreamers," but that doesn't do justice to the multiple layers in fact contained in the title. "Fol espoir," or "crazy hope," is the name of a cabaret east of Paris just before WWI. The owner and employees of this cabaret decide to make a film that involves explores going to Patagonia and getting wrapped up in a dispute between Argentina and Chile over an island. Their boat is called the "fol espoir" as well, and there is a shipwreck, thus making them "les naufragés," (literally, "shipwrecked"). This movie within a play is in fact based on a Jules Verne novel that was published posthumously. Oh, and it's a left-wing propaganda film about greed and social justice.

So anyway, the play functions on multiple levels, particularly because the movie-in-a-play doesn't have a happy ending. The attempt at creating a utopian society on this island in South America is thwarted by the discovery of gold (this story occurs in the late 1800s), the shipwrecked people start competing and killing each other, and the remaining "drifting dreamers" decide to flee when they see what gold has done to them. Man, this is complicated to explain. And then when you add to the fact that the filming of this movie is taking place within the two weeks following the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and Europe is careening toward WWI, you get another layer of meaning for the "drifting dreamers" of the "fol espoir" cabaret (in that they're trying to focus on art while the world is falling apart around them). So you sort of have to think of this on three levels--the context of the movie (late 1800s), the context of the play (July 1914), and the context of the performance itself (as in, today). The themes of national identity, social justice, and the role of engaged artistic production (to name a few) apply in all three temporalities, of course. I think I'll stop there on the plot, because there's really no good way to break it apart on paper.

In any case, getting back to the experience of the event, however, the compound-like nature of the group means that you're supposed to get there early and have dinner too. Yes! So this is what many of the actors who aren't selected for the show are stuck doing--cooking and serving the public. I can see how this could create issues, but I wasn't about to complain, the experience was extraordinary. The compound is called "the cartoucherie," and it's located in this huge park just outside Paris on the eastern side (the bois de Vincennes). You have to take the subway and then a special shuttle to get out there. Anyway, on the compound, they actually made the performance space into the "fol espoir" cabaret. So the facade is all done up and everything, the idea is that the public is quite literally entering and dining in the cabaret before the performance. Kari and I are kicking ourselves for not having our cameras, but our minds were so thoroughly blown by the performance that we're seriously considering going back again. Which is saying a lot for a 4 hour show, that we were captivated enough to see it again!

So you enter the cabaret and then go to a big counter for the meal, which offers a few selections--last night there was a salmon and lentil plate or a hearty stew. Homemade, of course. We went for the stew, and then there are of course all sorts of drink options, including hot brewed hibiscus, which is what I tried. It didn't taste like hibiscus tea, but it did taste like flowers. It was served with orange and lime in it, so it had a fruity flavor too. Divine. We pondered having an extra drink before going into the show but decided against it because, well, when it's a 4-hour production you never know what the lines for the bathroom at intermission might be like, haha. And when I went to the bathroom just before the show as a preventative measure, I was sure glad I had decided to forego that extra drink, because that's when I discovered that the bathrooms were Turkish. ohhhhhhhh. Small price to pay for an otherwise extraordinary evening!

Busy weekend...

So yesterday was an exceptionally busy Saturday, as I had a SEVEN hour orchestra rehearsal for my upcoming concerts this week. Ouch. But the rehearsal actually wasn't as tedious as I feared, it should be an ok concert. The most interesting part of the rehearsal was the space, actually, in that it was held at the Bastille Opera house. The Bastille opera house is one of the more strange Mitterrand contributions to the architecture of Paris. And that's saying a lot, as he's also responsible for the National Library and the pyramids at the Louvre. So yeah, it doesn't take much imagination to consider how strange this building looks nestled in with the regular Haussmannian buildings surrounding it:


I don't know who said it, but my favorite critique of this building is that it "answered a question no one asked." hahahaha. In any case, for as impressive at is looks on the outside, it's equally noteworthy on the inside. I swear it's another non-euclidean building. It just doesn't make sense. Our rehearsal was on the SIXTH basement level! So yeah, I spent most of my day 6 floors underground in a rehearsal room. Then we had a short break for lunch in the staff cafeteria, which is on the 7th floor above ground. You can do the math, that was a hell of a lot of escalators we ended up on, haha. We tried to find an elevator but gave up when we got pathetically lost. And the escalators ended up being more interesting anyway, since we saw the hallways for the soloists' studios and stuff like that. I didn't get to see inside any of them, but we all agreed we wouldn't mind being divas for a day and having access to all the fancy facilities. We had to content ourselves with feeling important in the staff cafeteria, which, for the record wasn't bad at all.

I think I solidified my reputation in the orchestra as the American nutcase, however. After my stellar performance of an American accent in French last fall, this time I solidified my American credentials with my knowledge of Grease lyrics. Yes, you read that right. The story is that the third movement the Mendelssohn piano concerto we're playing has this one line in the cello section that sounds EXACTLY like the walking bass line of Summer Lovin'. It's been a joke in orchestra all season long and we are all rather amused whenever we get to it. We were drilling that section (for the winds, the cello part is obviously not a problem), and everyone was laughing as we did it over and over. So then some people started trying to sing along, but of course they only knew the melody and didn't have the lyrics down at all. Finally I was like, "oh no, if we're going to do this, we have to do it right!" And that's how I found myself doing a full karaoke rendition of Summer Lovin', with even the conductor laughing his ass off at me. The only thing that would have made it better is if I could actually sing, hahaha. They were all impressed that I knew the lyrics, but I was sitting there like, "I didn't hear that song at EVERY middle school dance I went to for nothing!" When we got to the "tell me more!" part, at least I had some backup, as they could figure that part out! Otherwise, though, I was stuck being both Olivia Newton John AND John Travolta. And 100% crazy, I'm sure. But hey, you don't mistreat Grease. If you're going to make fun of it, you've got to do it right!

Once I got out of orchestra, Kari and I had grand plans for the evening, namely to go see our friend Charlotte dance in a burlesque show up in Belleville! Very cool. We had tried to go see her about a month ago but got to the club too late and there was no space left. This time we got there super early and stood in line for an hour, which was a good thing because we weren't in fact the first people in line. Charlotte was awesome--she's enrolled in the "école des filles de joie," which is basically a dance program to learn how to be a moulin rouge dancer. I'm insanely jealous, as it looks absolutely awesome. And hilarious...as I said to Kari, I haven't seen so many pasties in one room since I graduated from Bryn Mawr, haha. Too bad it's both a) expensive and b) heavily time consuming, or I'd think about it myself. SO funny.

Beyond just the students, there were also some professionals who came to do special routines as well. The highlight of the pros was clearly the fire dancers, who had a whole routine with these fancy torches that were attached to their hands somehow. I'm not entirely sure how it worked in that they weren't holding onto the torches, they were strapped on somehow. But then the women did all this crazy stuff with the way they moved their hands so that it created patterns in the air. We were really nervous about one of the dancers, who had super long hair in a ponytail that was flying all around. She's a pro so she must have it under control, but we definitely had visions of the ponytail going up in flames.

Anyway, that was perhaps enough excitement for one weekend, as at the end of the show I was cat-calling Charlotte and all of a sudden I felt like I had a knife in my throat. I've been trying to fight off a sore throat for a few days, I think, and I think perhaps it quite suddenly caught up with me last night. Today ended up being a low-key day of reading, as I realized just how tired I am. I decided the one productive thing I could do would be to do some spring cleaning, so I've completely redone my room. It's about time, this place was a holy mess. I suppose the one good thing about living in a shoe box is the fact that there's a limit to how long it can take to clean, haha. I mean, seriously, I think I can mop the floor in under a minute, since there just isn't much floor to mop!

Oenological dilettantism

So it will probably not come as a surprise to most of you that the ENS apparently has the oldest university wine tasting club in France. Naturally. And of course they're extremely proud of that fact.

I have wanted to go to one of their club meetings all year, but for one reason or another it hasn't worked out. Until yesterday. The theme of last night's "dégustation" was portos. Not French, I know, but whatever. My main problem with tastings, of course, is that I don't particularly know what I'm doing, haha. When Ben and I were discussing the fact that we were going to the tasting, my comment was, "all I know about portos is that I like them!" haha.

Anyway, I arrived at the tasting (in the dining hall) to find long tables with white tablecloths, two glasses per person (water and wine), and everything all set. Yes! A guest expert was there to guide us through our tasting, and the main thing I learned was that portos are actually a derivative of a Burgundy pinot. Some dude way back when took pinot grapes down to Portugal to try his hand down there and ended up with porto. And I'm glad he did, as we ended up with some delicious wine last night!

Here's the funniest part: all the 20-year-olds with their developed palettes. I was clearly the heretic of the room, while they were talking about the "robe" and how they tasted red fruits, cinnamon, you name it, I sitting there like, "yum, this one is good!" And seriously, how many 20-year-old American guys do you know who would attend a wine tasting and have such sophisticated commentary AND use the spit bucket thingies? Well, correction, how many 20-year-old American guys who are not members of a Princeton eating club do you know who would do such a thing? haha. In further proof that the ENS is in fact Princeton in disguise, the student in charge of pouring our samples was wearing a shirt with cuff links! Yes! Young Republicans of the world unite!

Of course, you can also imagine my consternation at the end, when we had to go around the room and say which wine we liked the best and why. Like a good mediocre student I took the safe route and parroted back what the presenter said about the one I liked the best, haha. So I discussed why I liked the "cognac overtones, like an armagnac" of the one I liked. I can sling the bullshit with the best of them :-)

Oh, and each wine was paired with some chocolate, so we sampled chocolate from: Indonesia, Ghana, Equador, Venezuela, and the Caribbean. Again, others were commenting on the flavor variations while I was basically sitting there like, "mmmmm, chocolate!"

After the tasting, there was a buffet meal. I struck out on the first round, which was all sorts of fancy cheeses. But whatever, the bread was delicious, so that's good enough for me! The next round was a set of macaroons from Pierre Hermé, which were DIVINE. I sort of ran afoul of the dairy in them (French macaroons are nothing like the American incarnation, they're little merengue cookies with cream in the middle) but kind of didn't care, that's how good they were, haha. I then fell off the bandwagon completely, however, and sampled the cherry tart and the raspberry tart. Both with cream sauces, of course. I am an idiot. But man were they good!