In Memoriam

I'm really not in the mood to write. These last few days have been tough, but at this point I think enough time has past for me to acknowledge that chasing my sorrows away with vodka and painkillers, hasn't made anything better. So, against all urge, I've decided I should write about the situation. This is not only for my own sake but also for Jerry, because the great man that he was certainly deserves a eulogy. Here it is:

Jerry,
I didn't get to know you quite as well as I hoped. We spent a lot of time together but we both know you weren't really the open or eccentric type. This was one of the things I dearly loved about you. I know that in your culture showing vulnerability is looked down on, so you decided to run instead. And I still feel somewhat guilty for not trying harder to stop you. I shouldn't have let you pick your own destiny.
Still what I'll remember and cherish forever are the great moments we had. They were never long but were always of great intensity. Although I only knew you for a few weeks I still always had the feeling that we understood one another tacitly. Like the time I got angry at you for sitting on the fridge, the very same fridge at which we met for the first time. Just one look from me and you understood I just needed some time on my own and left. Thank you.
Then there was the time I first met you and even I know that this moment will forever be among the most memorable in my life. It happened when I spotted you across that room, just sitting there on the fridge. You spotted me on the other side, sitting on the bowl. I was so excited to see you I got up a little too quickly, hit my head on the boiler and fainted. When I woke up you were gone but I knew: I met someone very special.
And now you are gone forever. Just like that. Because of one instant of weakness. You resisted the white powder for a long time. Kept your head straight! Then you couldn't help it anymore. You had to know. I've spent many sleepless nights hazed in booze, lamenting that I ever let that woman give it to you. Now it's too late and I'll have to live with what I've done. Carry my burden.
But I want you to know: You were the most special, intelligent, sweet and stronghearted mouse I ever got know. And don't forget: You were my first.

In loving memory

Your best friend

PS: Maybe my assumption that there was but one Jerry was a little naive. He's back...

Top-notch heavyweights

I haven't written for a while now, and that's mostly for two reasons: A lack of motivation, and a lack of material.
But now with a true highlight and an afternoon off, here we go:
The following is the story of a legendary face off between two self appointed members of the literary intelligentsia at the Sorbonne, both of whom are my classmates.
Currently, I am taking a great class on literary criticism with a quite nerdy but really nice guy who publishes science fiction utopian books in his free time. And it was in his class that this literary clash took place - one that was so dramatic it made the “Thrilla in Manila” look like Mexican backyard wrestling.
It all started with a harmless presentation. What made it great wasn't its subject ( Roland Barthes vs. Raymond Picard, for those of you who care about content...) but rather the presenter: a misunderstood literature genius with a weird unplaceable aura somewhere between Woody Allen and Jack the Ripper. He always has a kind of neurotic, restless look on his face, definitely knows his shit, but you can't help but think that it's only a matter of time before he brutally slaughters someone, or everyone. As he finished, his opponent - an English choirboy, erasmus student just like myself, with slight nervous tics - jumped in the ring.
Unlike myself, this student is a very religious man, which is evident by his consciously wearing a golden necklace and angel pendant and equally so as well by his unconsciously blessing himself with the sign of the cross every 3 minutes. His french is close to perfection and he definitely knows about literature, as he is hardly ever without a book.
All of this set the scene for a vivid argument over two very firm, well informed and conflicting opinions. Again the discussion itself wasn't the essential part. Maybe it was groundbreaking, but I have to admit they lost me about 4 minutes in. Either way, half an hour of these two characters taking perfectly worded swings at each other, left the professor in utter desperation, and that was just priceless. And as if that wasn't enough, both of them having quite large heads gave the whole situation the flair of an intellectual real life Beavis & Butthead episode making for an incredible experience.
Although I have to say the fact that I am the only guy in that class, apart from those two raises more questions than I ever needed answers to.

Greetings from the still uninformed but very amused critic

"The smoking dog" 

Champs Elysées

Zidane vs. Materazzi

Why would you put something like that up in Paris?

That's what he thought too: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-2228004/Marco-Materazzi-tweets-picture-Zinedine-Zidane-statue.html

Centre Pompidou

A bit of the "Strawinsky fountain" and a lot of photo editing.... 

And finally a proper picture of the Eiffel tower

M.T.O.N.I.P.

After finally getting sort of comfortable speaking French again I realized it was all pointless. All you have to learn are the first letters of every word. They sure love their abbreviations over here. The pride the French take in their system of abreviations can be seen when the whole world agrees on one. AIDS in France: SIDA! Not to be confused with the famous football player Zidane or the Disney hero Simba, but overall definitely not as scary sounding as AIDS.

The most remarkable sentence I heard so far when asking for directions to avenue Victor Hugo.

“Well you just take the RER B till CLH, switch there to the A. Then you get of at CDGE and you're basically there”

WTF? It all makes perfect sense once you get that RER stands for Réseau Express Régional (it's basically the same as the metro but faster and goes further into the suburbs), CLH is short for Châtelet les Halles, a gigantic metro station/ shopping mall/ hobo hangout, and CDGE means Charles de Gaulles Étoile, the station right next to my destination. Just way too complicated.

So trying to be all casual you suggest BDSM, but apparently that is not a valid abbreviation for the Boulevard St.Michel. LOL

Instead of greetings today I just simply want to say: YOLO!

 Some street art.....

The square was first named after his younger brother Oliver till he became a terrible football TV-expert. Afterwards they named it after his older brother Dominique-Strauss but that didn't go well either. So after all they choose the middle one: Albert!

Très chique.......

The two little signs say: "Water on all floors" and "Gas on all floors"

 Two lovely bistros in my area....

Barpolitics

So my neighbour and I decided to grab a beer together, as in to go downstairs to the bar in our house. Oh yes, I have a bar in my house! Usually it makes it's presence known by the smell of deep-fried food all the way through the staircase. Plus you have to be really careful not to run over any waiters, since the way from the kitchen to the Pub crosses the hallway for some weird reason.

The place itself is kind of posh and pretty expensive so I decided to make conversation with random people in order to limit expenses. Being a foreigner really opens door here.

-Where are you from?

-Germany!

-Just so you know: I prefer Hitler to the Jews!

Wow! Didn't see that one coming! The only thing more pathetic than the statement itself was probably me, mumbling “He was Austrian” whilst walking away still a little shocked. Not even by his political views but by his timing. Who could even even think of that as a good way to start a conversation? Genocide is generally just not that great a of an icebreaker. It's something, better used in Bavarian pubs somewhere between beer number 8 and 15, preferably by older men leading of with “Listen son, I'm not a racist. I have nothing against foreigners. I mean terrible things happened, BUT...”

I guess what I'm trying to say is: There is a time and place....

The following pictures are all taken at “Père Lachaise”, the oldest cemetery of Paris  

And the great tower...

Manners and moustaches

I know that I haven’t written anything for a while, but it turns out that as an Erasmus student here you actually have to study. Who would have guessed?

The uni system here is quite different from Germany. It is an endless series of essays, presentations and midterm exams. Professors are keeping attendance records and they kick people out for misbehaviour (such as laughing in class. Actually saw the guy after class, smoking a joint in the yard and a lot of questions were answered right then.)

Just yesterday I handed in two essays. Brilliant topics like: “Evaluate Victor Hugo's manifesto on modern theatre” . Try writing five pages on that! I know loads about modern French theatre but I guess Hugo might just know a little better, so what am I supposed to say? After 5 hours of writing it took me another hour to go through dictionaries to find really long synonyms for short words. After which I had to adjust every setting from font size and line spacing to indention and font type (Turns out Arial is way bigger than Times New Roman), just to get to 5 pages.

So now I'm free for a week or two, which explains why I'm posting useless information on the internet. I have to say I prefer the German university system. University is supposed to be two months of hell every year studying for exams and the rest is just going to class whenever you actually make it out of bed.

As I am writing this I'm sitting in a laundromat counting down the minutes and hoping I choose the right program. The washing machines look really futuristic and I realized that my vocabulary when it comes cleaning related technical terminology is pretty much non existent. Still I’m hoping for the best...

I actually had my first experience of “L'arrogance parisienne” about 5 min ago in here. So far the Parisian have been surprisingly…… alright , but going back to the laundromat after enjoying some coffee in the sun (Yep, sun! First time in a week) an old lady asks me how to work the machine. As I explained earlier my vocabulary in this field is rather limited, and as such limits my ability to respond quite a lot. So she immediately starts to get annoyed. She turns to the machine whilst mumbling something about foreigners that I didn't really understand. Pretty sure it was not about the beauty of cultural diversity though. So now I'm just sitting here enjoying the scenery of her angrily staring and swearing at the washing machine, looking like she's about to beat it up just like a smelly illegal immigrant. She is actually watching me writing about her but given my terrible handwriting and her incapability to speak English I think I'm safe.

Apart from that, everything is going really well here. I’ve got to know my area a little. I know where to go and more importantly where not to go. Rocking an dazzling ⁱmoustache with funky sideburns has already got me big props from one the pimps running a brothel on my street, I might be imagining this but I think even the prostitutes are treating me with more respect. My goal is to greet them all by their (fake) first name by the end of this stay. So far they still call me “chéri” and I call them, well nothing since I don't know their names and “chéri” might send the wrong message.

Greetings from the soon to be pimp and his stack of freshly washed clothes

i

Shenanigans with the landlandy

 Ok so, believe it or not: I found a place. It’s a 12 m² (118,4 sq. ft. for those of you thinking that life with the metric system is just not complicated enough) studio-apartment. Basically it's more of a big toilet with lodging; but it is right next to Place Pigalle, which is right next to the Moulin Rouge, which is right next to a lot of hookers and sex-shops. But maybe even more importantly, it's at walking distance from my universities. So from now on it's going to be 15 minute walks instead of 1 hour train rides. I think that's what Aretha Franklin thought about when she wrote “Freedom”.

Finalizing the deal was a bit more of a hustle than I expected. My landlady, a very nice elderly lady, lives in a district of Paris that is actually called “Stalingrad”. As a German, getting on a train to Stalingrad doesn't really bring up all that many happy thoughts, but turns out it is one of the most beautiful areas of Paris. Times are changing...

Having arrived at her house, the first thing my landlady did was to open a bottle of wine which, with some help from her Brazilian boyfriend, was finished pretty quickly. So the second bottle was open before we even started talking about the down payment.

By the time we got to that I expected to sign something, but it turns out that with a written contract she'd have to pay taxes and that just seems like a waste of money. Since I've already seen the place, know where she lives and already had quite some wine I decided to trust her. Let's hope that doesn't turn out to be a mistake.

After the work was done she proposed a toast, which seemed fair, given the occasion. But after she listed all the liquors and liqueurs she had and I didn't know any of them, she somehow felt it to be her duty to introduce me to all of them within less than an hour, and she had quite the collection…

Having said our goodbyes it was time for me to head to a little get-together of some friends of a friend. I had never met them before and it turned out the whole thing was pretty posh and sophisticated. Believe me, somewhere between tipsy and just plain drunk is not the state you want to be in when some kids from Yale want to discuss German politics. I don't think I came across all that bright.

Greetings from the no longer homeless drunk.

Because drinking out of glasses is just too mainstream

Daddy is so proud

French cinema asking the questions that will face all of us one day or another

My University

Brothers in thought

The name of the statue: "Where is the rest?"

And of course the obligatory photo of the famous Eiffel Tower

Let the games begin

So here we go: First day of class at the Sorbonne! Well actually the very first class is not at the Sorbonne itself but at some outpost way up north. But “Nous sommes tous une grande famille.” - We all are one big family, as the guy doing the introductory class assured with a big grin that I'd place somewhere between an overly nice waiter, the Joker and just your regular pedophile. His mimics and gestures were “très français”, maybe a little too “français” to actually be “français”. Turns out his name is Ludwig – not all that “français” but quite “allemand.” Judging by his dark turtleneck and big glasses, he read a lot of Sartre, tried to become just like him, got sidetracked somewhere on the way, drifted towards Louis de Funes and just stuck with that.
But it looks like he's not the only one getting sidetracked. Back to the school:
The Philosophy department is in a very nice multicultural neighbourhood, a lot of fruit-shops and most importantly: There is a great Kebap place right across the street. I'm guessing the area would be even better if I spoke Arabic, but at least no one realizes my accent. They all have their own.
The building itself is something between futuristic and a construction site (perhaps that means it's very futuristic! - credits to Moustache Mike) It looks like it's going to be a really great place once they've finished it, long time after I'm gone. Timing really is everything.
On the bright side: Everything is labeled very clearly, so for the first time I found my room immediately, without looking like a complete retard.
The lecture itself was quite weird. Some guy was sitting upfront with a laptop and literally reading everything at such a slow speed that everybody can copy it. And everybody actually does! Why he didn't just print it out remains his secret, I suppose.
So that plus a little “Questions anybody?” at the end and that was basically the whole class. That last bit he actually managed to say without looking at his laptop. Ironically he was reading about Décartes telling you to doubt everything external authorities tell you and not just copy their opinions.

Reading this bit through, I just realized it's all very negative, which is really not fair to Paris, since I'm having a pretty great time here. Plus it's all about stuff that isn't even remotely interesting to anybody. In my defense: I'm writing this as I'm trying to stay awake on the train.
The next bit is gonna be interesting, inspired, positive and a fun read all together. I promise!

Greetings from the actually not all that sad, but really tired clown.

Robinson Crusoe

Robinson Crusoe

Yep, Robinson f**cking Crusoe! Since the apartment-hunt is not going all that well, for now I'm stranded on a little island the natives call Magny-les-Hameaux.
It's a little suburb about one hour outside of Paris and actually quite accessible from the city. So the Robinson metaphor might be a little exaggerated. Or maybe poetic, depending on how you look at it. But the metaphor was too hard to resist, as the village is largely deserted during the day since everyone who lives there works in Paris

The upside: You can walk in the middle of the main street, singing at the top of your lungs, since there is nobody there to hear you, or run you over. It's quite fun, I tried!
The downside: There is not really anywhere to go to, unless you wanna hang out with the 2-3 school dropouts smoking cigarettes and drinking soda outside the supermarket. Yeah Soda!They're not even proper alcoholics or at least crack-addicts! Yet...
Class starts next week, so at least I'll have something to do during the day, and as I said: The connection to Paris is not too bad. Still, I'm hoping to find a an apartment soon.
Till then: Waiting for Friday! ( Not a metaphor! I'm really looking forward to a good night out.)

Jardin du Luxembourg

Jardin du Luxembourg

The sun is still nurturing the soil with it's warmth, but all the brown leaves barely holding on to the branches of the chestnut trees are already announcing the arrival of autumn.

After leading of with the single most poetic sentence I've ever written down or even thought of. I guess my first visit to the “Jardin du Luxembourg” can be summed up with just a few quick observations:

1. I don't think I've ever seen pigeons that fat, and I've been to Venice!
   
   
2. It's incredible how many people have the time to go for a run at 11:30am. They are like herds of buffaloes
   
   
3. The only place more packed than the running track and all the cafes is the McDonald’s in between them.
   National Pride? Not so much!
   
   
4. Oh yeah! The park is really beautiful.

La Sorbonne

La Sorbonne

My first contact with the university is scheduled for Tuesday 11am. I don't really know what I need to do it just says: “Rendez-vous”. I figured it's probably not a date, but apart from that I have absolutely no clue. I'm a little nervous, especially since I haven't figured out my schedule yet.

First thing I realize arriving at the Sorbonne: It is massive.

The second thing: The staircases are marked with letters but god forbid putting them in alphabetical order! Staircase F. 40m down the hall: Staircase Q. Another 30m: Staircase J. What???

After about 20min of running around the building, whilst passing the same people 2-3 times, probably looking more and more confused with every walk-by, I finally find staircase I and the Erasmus office.

Name?

Steffen Börschel!

Here's your student ID. Off you go!

A one hour train ride, 20 minutes of running around in circles, 15 minutes of waiting outside the office, and all I got was a lousy one minute meeting...

It's an almost italianesque efficiency.

The departure

 The departure

Here we are with the second post (do you call them “posts”?) of my blog. The “Blog au vin” as it is known to connaisseurs:

So the day has arrived. Ze German is heading to Paris. He still hasn't got anything figured out really. But hey, it's only Paris. How hard can it be?

Thanks to my widely spread out family I have a place to stay for a bit. I'm guessing I'll handle the apartment situation from there. But then there is this other thing: They want to know what I am actually gonna do over there. “They” being my university back in Germany, and “I” being the guy that really doesn't know what he’s gonna do. I can see a conflict rising!

Maybe if there was a halfway decent homepage showing me my options I could have at least given it some thought.

As I am writing this bit I'm on the last of my three trains: “Déstination – Paris Est”. For some reason my seat is in the quiet area which is quite ironic seeing as I spent the last two hours on a train with a bunch of football fans travelling to Frankfurt, who were about as loud as they were drunk. I fairly enjoy the alcohol myself, but at 9 o clock on a Sunday morning, really? I wonder how many of them actually made it to the game..?

Now as we are approaching the French border the smell of arrogance is getting stronger, but that might just be the stockbroker next to me acting all important multitasking his blackberry and I Pad at the same time. Pretty sure if he really was all that important he would not be travelling second class. But then again: We are in a crisis.

Finally in Paris! First impression: Paris might actually be the only city I know where you walk out of the station into a beautiful square without hookers and dealers; or at least as far as I have seen. But that little cigarette break was my only impression of the city itself for today. Another one hour metro ride to my uncles’ place and here I am, in a quiet little suburb. Not very bohemian at all. Gotta work on that…Starting tomorrow!

Greetings from the restless traveller.

Well hello blogasphere! (Oh yeah, using trendy words attracts a younger fanbase, and that's exactly what I'm going for)

First things first: Who am I and why do I write a blog?

I consider myself a scholar and philosopher of sorts, which is why I'm going to Paris in an attempt to become more bohemian by living in a shady room, drinking cheap red wine and writing about how miserable this modern world turned out.

Why is this blog written in English?

Well, no one speaks Latin anymore and my Chinese, especially in written form, is a little rusty. Writing a French blog in France just seems a little too mainstream for a bohemian in the making like myself, and as for Italian, well, I refer back to my comment about Latin.

What's this blog gonna be about?

I honestly don't know! Paris, I guess. Adventures in Paris, if I happen to be in any, and otherwise probably just my boring everyday life, maybe some whining about how the world just doesn't get me (heard that's kind of “en vogue”) and the rest is just gonna be little surprises on the way.

I'll be leaving in two weeks, so if you're interested in reading about it, just check morethan1nightinparis.blogspot.de every now and then for updates.

Bohemian greetings

Steffen