Yummy in My Tummy: Olive Oil, Tomatoes, and Cheese

Undoubtedly, one of the best things about living on my own is that I am able to cook for myself. There are few things in life that give me as much joy as cooking. Some people say that cooking is an art form that requires years of hard work and practice to become any good. Others say that it's merely science, and, like with most scientific experiments, if you follow the protocol, nothing will go wrong. I'm a strong believer in both. If you follow the directions of a recipe, the meal will come out just fine; that's the chemistry of cooking. However, to take a recipe and make it better, to take a recipe and make it your own -- that's the art of cooking. And that's the part that takes time and practice. At least, that's my philosophy.

With that in mind, "Yummy in My Tummy," as I have aptly named this series of posts, will focus on my culinary adventures in the kitchen. I'll be posting recipes (and translations of recipes, since many are originally French) as well as my commentary on the recipe. I'll talk about where I deviated from the recipe, what I liked, what I might change next time, what wine I drank with the meal, and what I think overall. Most of the recipes will probably be things that I've never cooked before, but I'll probably be posting some of my favorite, regular meals as well.

I don't pretend to be a great cook. I can follow a recipe and usually get it to come out pretty nicely. I don't know that I'll be able to provide much insight into the world of cooking. I don't think that what I have to say is impressive or on par with Julia Child or even important in the world of cooking at all. I do hope, however, that maybe you'll see a recipe that you want to try out when you read this. And maybe you'll try it. And maybe you'll like it. And maybe you'll let me know what you think and what you did differently. And that's really the whole point.

Ok, enough monologuing. Let's talk about food.

Homemade Pesto Sauce*

Ingredients:

50 g of fresh basil leaves

4 Tbsp of pine nuts

1 clove of garlic

1/2 cup of extra virgin olive oil

salt, pepper

2 Tbsp of grated parmesan

Notes on ingredients: 

I used raw pine nuts for this, but friends who have also made fresh pesto have said that roasted pine nuts work as well. I leave the choice up to you, dear reader. All I can really say is that pine nuts are expensive, roasted OR raw.

Directions:

1. Shred basil leaves into small pieces. Mince clove of garlic.
2. Add basil, pine nuts, garlic, and olive oil to bowl of food processor. Add some salt and pepper and mix until the pesto is smooth.
3. Optional: Once pesto is mixed well in the food processor, stir in the parmesan until well blended.

Notes on directions:

I wonder somewhat if the shredding of the basil leaves in necessary since it's all going into the food processor anyway. Same thing goes for the garlic, but it should be noted that the garlic can be minces, chopped, crushed... whatever you prefer to get the garlic into small pieces. Also, a blender works just as well as a food processor. I should know, since I didn't happen to have a food processor on hand but DID have a blender. The puree setting seemed to work marvelously.

Rachel's thoughts:

This is a very easy recipe. VERY easy. I don't often use food processors or blenders, so I ended up calling my family for advice on the differences between the two and whether a blender would even be able to chop up garlic and basil into small enough pieces. In the end, I just ended up crossing my fingers and pushing buttons on the blender until I figured out which setting would be best. Once I made it over that hump, however, I realized just how simple this recipe is. Preparation is pretty minimal, and a machine does most of the work for you.

One thing that gave me trouble was measuring out the right amount of basil. I had no idea how to measure out 50 g without some sort of metric scale. I translated the metric measurement into American, which was roughly 4 Tablespoons, but I just didn't see how I was supposed accurately fill those spoons. Stuff them with basil? Pack it in tightly? Sounded like too much work. So I just eyeballed it. I went by the packaging, which told me that I had 70 g total. All in all, I probably only used about 40 g of basil, or about two loose handfuls, but I don't think it had any negative effects on the outcome of the recipe. Anyone have a good idea for how to accurately measure these things?

I decided not to include any parmesan in this batch, since I was not even sure if it would turn out in the first place. Upon tasting the pesto fresh out of the blender, I felt that it didn't really need it. It was light and fresh and totally safe for anyone who might have issues with lactose. Next time, I think I might add in the cheese, just to see how it changes things. However, I usually have some cheese elsewhere in my meal, whether it be parmesan topping the pasta or fresh mozzarella slices on bread. Therefore, parmesan IN pesto really can be optional.

This pesto works wonderfully as a dipping sauce for fresh bread or as pasta sauce for all sorts of dishes.

Let's take a look and see just how that pesto can be put to use.

Pesto Farfalle with Sauteed Tomatoes

Ingredients:
Pesto
Farfalle noodles
Grape or cherry tomatoes
Garlic
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt, pepper
Parmesan

Notes on ingredients:
I'm not including amounts in this recipe. The pesto that you make in the above recipe  is for at least four people, depending upon how much pesto they like to eat. That said,  adjust the amount of these ingredients as necessary to accommodate the number of people in your party.

Directions:

1. Boil water for pasta.
2. While waiting for the water to boil, finely chop garlic. Put some olive oil in the bottom of a pan and heat. Add tomatoes. Lightly salt and pepper the tomatoes and stir occasionally.
3. Once the skin on the tomatoes begins to wrinkle, add garlic to the pan and continue cooking until garlic is golden brown. If pasta is not yet ready, turn heat down on tomatoes to low heat.
4. When water is boiling, add farfalle and cook for 8-10 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Drain pasta. Add sauteed tomatoes and garlic. Add 2-4 spoonfuls of pesto. Sprinkle parmesan on top.

Rachel's thoughts:
Another simple, quick, and easy dish. I've done this a couple nights in a row now because I've been trying to finish off these ingredients, and I love that it only takes me about 15 minutes to prepare and cook everything. Of course, it helps that I've already got the pesto prepared.

This is a very basic dish. Feel free to add things to it. I'm thinking some sauteed onions might be nice, and I know for a fact that some grilled chicken will never go wrong with this. It's something that you can really build up from, and I'm currently wondering whether I might try to add some chicken and asparagus tonight or whenever I next make this meal.

One thing that might be fun to mess with would be the spices. You could very easily add a little rosemary or thyme or oregano to the tomatoes. I would even venture to say that some crushed red pepper might be fun for a little extra kick. Have fun with flavors!

Wine of the meal
Cupcake Vineyards Angel Food white blend

This is a wine I'd been wanting to try for a while, I must admit. I have been a fan of Cupcake Vineyards for about a year now, ever since I tried their Red Velvet red blend, which is without a doubt my favorite wine. I could drink that stuff by the bottle. Literally. Therefore, I was pretty excited to try Angel Food. To me, if these guys can be so good at a red blend, why wouldn't they be equally good at a white blend?

Here's what Cupcake has to say about this wine: "Made with premium chardonnay grapes as a base, this proprietary white blend is luscious, aromatic and delightfully reminiscent of an Angel food cupcake. Flavors of bakes Granny Smith apple and hints of toasty vanilla combine for a creamy mouthfeel that has become a signature of Cupcake Vineyards.... Our proprietary Angel Food wine is a delicate blend of white grapes where each variety shows structure, aroma and depth of flavor with a long creamy finish. The grapes are harvested from vineyards in some of California's finest viticultural areas, each picked for their ability to engender these grapes with distinct characteristics. Each varietal is ferments separately, blended and then put through a unique oak regime that imparts a certain creaminess."

Angel Food really took me by surprise. I never really know what to expect when I try a new wine for the first time, but I can honestly say that this was not what I had in mind when I set out to try this wine. I knew that this would likely be a sweeter white, judging by the name alone. Even with the chardonnay base, it is nowhere near as dry as most of the chardonnays I've tried. The most overwhelming taste is that of vanilla. I can taste hints of apple there, if I pay close attention to my taste buds, but the vanilla taste is there every time. It isn't the perfect pairing for this meal, but it went well enough with dinner and the chocolaty dessert I had later. It's obviously not a dessert wine, but it was a happy medium for a pasta main course and a rich chocolate dessert.

Overall, not my favorite wine, but not bad. I'd likely buy it again and try it out with some other types of dessert, or maybe try it with some pancetta. It's worth the purchase just for that surprising vanilla taste, which makes the wine among the more unique and interesting ones I've tried.

*adapted from 5 fruits & légumes par jour by Louise Pickford, p. 86

Resurrection, or How I Learned to Stop Interpreting My Dreams and Marry Sam Winchester

And thus I emerge from blogging hibernation to resurrect this blog, just in time for graduation, summer, and unemployment!

Graduation, you ask? Why, yes, college graduation. I have completed four years of post-secondary education, and have received a fancy piece of paper that tells me all about this accomplishment in Latin. My degree is pretty cool.

Summer, you ask? Well, yes, I live in the northern hemisphere, so one might expect it to be summer here. Although, you wouldn't know it from looking outside. Thanks, June thunderstorms! Even if you aren't conducive to going outside, at least you are pretty conducive to bringing things back to life.

Unemployment, you ask? Sadly, yes, I do not have a job at the moment. I'm waiting to hear back from a few places before I decide it is officially time to drown my sorrows in wine, so hopefully someone will prevent that fate from occurring by hiring me. I'm looking to go into research at the moment, and I know that I'm a well-qualified candidate, but it's convincing everyone else and beating out the competition that makes the whole thing kinda challenging.

And so, while I am looking for employment, and when I am not busy preparing for a future career in medicine, I'll be updating this blog! Isn't that exciting? I'll be talking about all sorts of interesting things, and will likely do a few series on different themes. Right now, I'm looking at one that focuses on random thoughts and cool things I've learned, one that focuses on some of the cool places I've been lucky enough to visit over the past couple years, and one that focuses on book (and maybe movie) reviews. This last one is pretty exciting. For my first book in the series, I'll be taking a look at 50 Shades of Grey, which reads like mediocre fanfiction and yet has sold more copies than all of Ray Bradbury's work did when he was alive. I'm still looking for a snazzy title for this series, or at least for this book in the series, so if anyone has any ideas, leave them in the comments below.

So, random thoughts for the rest of this entry.

I have really weird dreams. And I don't mean surrealist dreams where I fly on the back of a cat through the Dead Sea. I mean dreams where I outrun natural disasters and save the world. Seriously. Let's take a look at last night's dream as an example. Last night, I lived up in Irvine, CA in my dreams, just a short drive away from Disneyland, and managed to stop a gang war. Seriously. In one corner, there were the silly white boys in their baggy clothes that looked like a throwback to late 1999/early 2000. Their leader was none other than Nick Carter, which likely explains the terrible men's fashion flashbacks; he was probably nostalgic for a time when girls ages 12-25 were willing to throw their bras, panties, and themselves at his feet.

Look at him, kneeling there and smiling. You can just tell he's plotting to corrupt today's youth with bad plaid and his older brother's hand-me-downs.

In the other corner, was a group of Latino men, who dressed in baggy black jeans and white t-shirts and shaved their heads. They were led by none other than Weevil from Veronica Mars.

I was definitely rooting for this guy throughout the whole dream. Even though I was supposed to be the objective, logical third party in all this.

I don't think I could have had a more Veronica Mars dream if I'd tried. I don't know what my subconscious was thinking, but it was certainly trying to hit as many blatantly awful stereotypes as possible. To be honest, I don't know how I ended up saving the day. I think I managed to do the impossible and actually talk some logical, reasonable sense into these boys and forced them to set aside their differences through the power of words, but it's hard to remember exactly. Anyway. As I drove from Disneyland back to the high school where this was all going down, I nearly lost control of my car and caused an accident (and there we get the bad-teenage-driver stereotype, even though I'm no longer a teenager in real life). Shaken and not entirely okay, I entered the high school and found my locker to be full of gifts from both parties. Weevil and Mr. Carter magically appeared on either side of me to hug me and thank me and show me the expensive gifts (there was a lot of gold involved) they had gotten from... somewhere. And it was all rainbows and puppies and smiles.

Awwww yeeahhhhhh.

My dream from two nights ago was a whole other type of monster. In it, Something Very Bad was about to happen. Something like the apocalypse. Something that would have ended the world as we know it.

And I feel fine.

These sorts of situations tend to, understandably, throw people's love lives into quite a tizzy. Worried that they might not have much time left on this world together, young lovers (and old lovers, too, let's not be ageist here) decide to do something crazy and get married. No time like the present, right? Duh. And so, this was how I found myself marrying Sam Winchester from the television show Supernatural.

And you know what? I am totally okay with that.

It was a very surprising turn of events, to be honest. I'm pretty certain that just prior to the wedding, I had managed to do some major butt-kicking. Comme toujours. Zombies, ghouls, vampires, does it really matter what I was fighting? The damn apocalypse was still approaching. Anyway, the point is, I had had to do some major butt-kicking to arrive at the safe house where everyone, including Sam Winchester, was waiting. As soon as I arrive, one of the older guys there who is apparently somewhat of a father figure to me pulls me aside and explains that Sam wants to see me. Well, alright. I won't say no.

After all, who could say no to that face?

This is where he proposes. Quite literally. He gives one of those heartfelt end-of-the-world speeches that heroic men in love seem to be so good at, and before I know what's happening, I've been shoved into a wedding dress and am walking down the aisle to meet my future husband, walking past fellow hunters and butt-kickers that I know and love from a surprising variety of TV shows. When I get to the altar, Sam is all smiles and grips my hand tightly, almost as if he's afraid he'll lose me forever if he lets go. The music and my emotions swell, and we are married and we kiss and it is magical.

Dream Sam Winchester looks damn good in a tux. Also, he gives really good hugs.

Also, I have some weird-ass dreams.

Peace, love, and June gloom,
Rachel

In Which Aristophanes Takes a Tumble

You may have noticed that I’ve been noticeably absent from my blog lately, and I feel dreadful about it. I promised you tons and tons of new posts (and believe me, there is plenty to write about), and yet I have not delivered on any of them. I feel as rotten as a politician.

But I have an excuse.

Well, several excuses, really, but there is one big one that totally takes the cake. Beyond the whole “I’m busy” excuse (which, ironically, seems to be the same excuse that keeps interfering in my love life) – involving moves across oceans and countries, working reunions and partying with Wellesley alums, getting a driver’s license, getting in touch with old friends, and just trying to be available for a family which really does need their daughter’s help – there is something much deeper at work here.

Aristophanes, my beloved computer, broke. Again.



This is not the first time that my dear, sweet, amazing, sexy laptop took a tumble. The last major problem led to a new motherboard and new memory. This time around, though, it seems that the love of my life was out for blood: the hard drive failed.

In all honestly, I knew this was coming. Aristophanes had been dropping warnings left and right. Files were corrupting, the bios and Windows were taking a long time to boot, and things just weren’t running as smoothly as they once had. I should have had the foresight to back up all of my files. Yeah, shoulda, woulda, coulda. The point is, in a bout of impressive laziness and astounding forgetfulness, I failed to back up my computer with my (literally) thousands of images from France. Not to mention my music, my writing (which is mostly backed up, actually), and some important documents for school and life in general.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to cry over a piece of technology before.

Most of my life flashed before my eyes as I thought of the gigabytes upon gigabytes that might potentially be lost forever. I managed to get a new hard drive through Dell that was covered under my warranty, and my family bought a copy of Windows 7 for me to install on my computer, so I soon had most things up and running again. However, I still hadn’t made any attempts to recover the data on the dead drive. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to salvage anything and that so many memories would be lost to hard drive heaven (or hell, I suppose).

In the end, though, I pulled my act together, mostly thanks to my dad, and took my hard drive to San Diego PC Help, where they told me that they could do a full recovery of all the data on my drive.

Huzzah!

In the immortal words of Buffy Summers, “We saved the world. I say we party.”

Now, while I have yet to receive all the data from my old hard drive and confirm that everything is indeed there, I am fairly confident that I am going to get my hands on all my important pictures and not lose all the lovely images of my year abroad. I suppose that we shall just have to wait and see, but I am choosing to be optimistic here.

So there you have it. No pictures = no updates. I don’t want to present you with massive amounts of text that, while possibly descriptive and accurate emotional descriptions of my experiences, just wouldn’t do justice to anything without some sort of personal visual aid. Therefore, expect more posts soon, dear reader, for I will eventually have my pictures sitting at my fingertips (backed up about six times), ready to be posted in awe-inspiring posts about Italy, England, and beyond!

Aristophanes has been my loyal companion for three years now, and though she has been a frustrating  and unruly mistress at times, I just can’t imagine giving her up for another model.

…I sound as though I am writing about a transsexual computer from Ancient Greece. Well, I suppose we all have our quirks.

Until the next entry, dear reader.

Bisous,
Rachel

Pour Vous Faire Rire

Incidentally, this is kinda how I feel about life right now. I have about a million obligations chasing after me that must be met before I leave France, and all I can ask myself is why the rum is always gone.

I leave for Corsica tomorrow, and as such, my only full day left in Aix after today will be this coming Friday. My train to the airport leaves early Saturday morning, and, to put my situation in different terms, this time next week, I shall be lounging around on Wellesley's campus, perhaps just waking up in a dorm room in Dower.

It feels so close, yet so very, very far... and all I want to do is run away from my responsibilities and into my bed where I can sleep for a couple weeks.

My life abroad is so HARD.

Oh, Captain Jack, I sometimes think that you and I are such kindred spirits.

More updates shall come soon (and more frequently) once things have calmed down on the France front.

Peace, love, et grosses bises,
Rachel

P.S. This summer, I shall be doubling as writer of my own blog and web mistress for my friend's blog: Alice in Nappyland. This should be a lot of fun. Feel free to check out her blog; it's quite awesome.

In the winter when it drizzles

I hate Paris in the springtime

I hate Paris in the fall 

I hate Paris in the summer when it sizzles

I hate Paris in the winter when it drizzles 

I hate Paris 

Oh why, oh why do I hate Paris?
Because my love is there... 

With his slut girlfriend!

This delightful little ditty is the take-off mantra of our heroine, Kate, in the movie French Kiss, a film about a woman who travels to Paris and eventually to the Côte d'Azur to chase after her fiancé who has left her for another (French) woman. She is accompanied by Kevin Kline's character, a Frenchman named Luc who, though slightly shady, wants nothing more than to own his own vineyard and produce his own wine. They, of course, fall in love and live happily ever after in the south of France, kissing out in the vineyards and cultivating wine.

And this is the song that I think of every time I think of Paris.

It's ironic, though, because I really do like Paris. I remembering being simultaneously over- and underwhelmed by Paris when I was there last August, but my Christmas vacation changed my opinion of the city. It is still sprawling and touristy and full of its fair share of snobs, but there is something downright magical about Paris when it snows.

As well as something sorta whimsical

I arrived mid-morning on the 23rd of December, and with its cold temperature and grey skies, Paris was a little less than welcoming. I had grown accustomed to traveling under mediocre conditions, however, so I dragged my duffel bag to my hostel (just a few short minutes from the Place de la République), checked in (only to be told that rooms were closed until 4pm for cleaning), and then embarked on my whirlwind Christmas vacation.

I was planning on seeing a French musical that evening, so I had a fair amount of time to kill before I needed to find the Palais des Sports, where the spectacle was taking place. I decided to start with a walk along the Champs Elysées. Friends had told me that it was well worth the trip for the lights and decorations alone, not to mention the Christmas market, which was sure to put Aix's market to shame. A short metro ride later, I emerged at the Place de la Concorde, which is at the far southeastern end of the Champs. The sky was an even darker color than when I had arrived only a couple hours before and seemed to threaten a terrible snowstorm. As it was, it was only lightly snowing, enough to coat my jacket in a fine layer of snowflakes, but not enough for it to really stick on the ground, and that was enough for me to appreciate.

The path down the street was fascinating. I happened to walk behind a group of about three American families who were traveling together, and amused myself by eavesdropping on their conversation only to finally speak up when I heard that they were from just outside of Boston. They were very pleasant and wished me a Merry Christmas before we parted ways and continued our separate Christmas excursions. It rather shocked me to see how many tourists were in Paris for Christmas. For me, the remainder of my Parisian romanticism was what had drawn me to this location for the holidays, but I couldn't believe that that same notion had enticed everyone around me to flock to the city of lights at the same time.

For one thing, winter is hardly the best time to see Paris. The trees are dead, the skies are dreary, and the streets are treacherously icy. I first noticed this as I was walking along the Christmas market and happened to stray a little off the concrete and onto the sandy portion of the sidewalk, where the snow had turned the sand almost muddy and the cold had solidified the slush (half-melted from the shoes of so many passers-by) into an icy block that caused me to nearly lose my footing. Luckily, that was also starting to melt thanks to the heavy foot traffic, but I knew that this could not bode well for the rest of the journey.

Eventually, I made it past the Christmas market and to the boutiques and "magasins" that were richly decorated for the holidays.

Sephora was perhaps not the most impressive, but its colorful display was certainly among the more festive 

I ducked inside a few stores to escape the snow and do a little window shopping, but soon my body grew tired of the constant freezing and thawing of limbs as I went from heated store to chilly exterior and back again, so I knew it was probably a good time to find a nice restaurant and relax a little for lunch. I chose a moderately priced Italian place on the Champs and ordered some wine and some hearty pasta to warm me up. I sat in a corner on the second floor of the restaurant, which was extraordinarily busy, while sipping my wine and watching the shoppers come and go down below. It was a very calming meal and the perfect thing to energize me for the rest of the day.

After lunch and a brief consultation of the list I had created of things to see and do, I decided it was time to go Christmas shopping. I had previously picked up some gifts for my family in various other locations in France, but I had not yet managed to find something for my dad, who I feel is always the hardest person to shop for because he usually buys all his own gifts and I am never sure if he already has something or not. This time, however, I was well-prepared: I had consulted my father on possible gift ideas and he had given me one specific guideline. I was to go to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore and purchase a book for him.

Shakespeare and Co has a special place in the hearts of the Oliver family. When my dad was younger, it was one of the places he visited during his travels in Europe. He purchased a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and even met the owner of the establishment, George Whitman, who habitually offered weary travelers he deemed worthy a place to rest for the night up above the bookstore. Whitman's daughter Sylvia now runs the store, and was unfortunately nowhere to be found when I visited, but the literary ambiance, I imagine, has stayed the same ever since my dad first visited in the early 1970s. My first visit to the store came during my initial three weeks in Paris, and came as a bit of a surprise. I had known that it was an English-language bookstore, but I had not imagined it as a sort of haven for Anglophones from around the world. I was actually shocked by the lack of French I heard on the premises. After wandering through the store for about 40 minutes, wondering at the sheer number of books squeezed into the tiny shop, I finally stumbled upon the travel section as well as the Lost Generation section. Feeling rather touristy, I did what I had been dying to do since I had applied for admission to the Wellesley-in-Aix program and purchased an inexpensive copy of A Moveable Feast, my favorite work by Ernest Hemingway.

It was this memoir that made the Shakespeare and Company bookstore famous to the literary world. Originally run by Sylvia Beach and located on rue de l'Odéon, the store became a center for literary culture and a frequent haunt of the writers of the Lost Generation, notably Hemingway, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound. The store closed in 1941 due to the German occupation of Paris and never reopened. After Beach's death in 1962, the bookstore owned by George Whitman on the Left Bank of the Seine changed its name from Le Mistral (likely referring to the strong wind that blows through Provence or the poet Frédéric Mistral) to Shakespeare and Co to honor the original store and its owner. Today, it even looks vaguely as the original store once did and is full of delightful nooks and crannies for its visitors to discover. And it has always remained a sort of mythical place to my family, despite the fact that it is not the original establishment.

My second visit to this store came during this vacation, and as mentioned before, I was a lady with a mission. I had to find something that my dad would appreciate that didn't cost too much and that would be unique enough that it would be clear that I had spent some time ruminating over my many options. At first, I considered a work of fiction, feeling that that would provide the most interesting search, but after nearly 45 minutes of staring at shelf after shelf, I felt even more clueless than I had before and decided that I should look amongst the new arrivals for something more unique. Finally, I found it! The perfect book: The Grand Design by Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow. Eight years previously, my dad had, through a roundabout sort of way, ensured that I received a copy of A Brief History of Time, and that I actually read it as well. Keep in mind that I was 12 at the time, and that quantum mechanics was really only something I had heard about in the movies. Thus, the purchase of Hawking's latest work seemed to me to come full circle, as it were, in multiple situations. My dad loved the book.

Not long after that adventure, it was finally approaching "l'heure" to head out to the Palais des Sports to see Mozart l'Opéra Rock. My former roommate Nicole and I had discovered this musical last spring via 24-Hour Drop, a file drop on the Wellesley server, and had been obsessed ever since. I had been dying to go see it ever since I had heard that it would be returning to Paris and had even bought my ticket before I even knew that I wanted to spend Christmas in Paris. The musical did not fail my expectations. It even cleared up some of the questions I had about some of the song lyrics by, obviously, giving context to the songs, and then went on to further boost my confidence in the French language once I realized that I was having hardly any difficulties understanding what was being said... or sung for that matter. All in all, it was well worth the 80 or 90 euros I spent on sixth row seats, especially since photography sans flash was allowed.

Results?

Awwww yeeaaahhhhh

Salieri, y u so sexy?

It was a thoroughly enjoyable play. It wasn't Art in the grand sense of the word and may or may not stand the test of time, but it was glitzy and glamorous and loud and fun. And that was all that I could really ask for. Surprisingly, it is also considered to be children-friendly. There were many, many people under the age of 16 in the crowd, and they were clearly enjoying the show. A fair number even knew the words to the songs.

My next day in Paris was spent mostly in the Louvre. But before I managed to spend seven hours staring at Renaissance paintings, I spent the early part of the morning walking past Notre Dame and along the Right Bank of the Seine, past l'Hôtel de Ville and a few blocks further to the broad side of the Louvre, which stretches on for quite a while, but doesn't seem to be nearly as long when one is inside.

Notre Dame got in the spirit of things with a pretty, giant tree to decorate the square

This statue, off to the right of the cathedral, was covered in the freshly fallen snow and looked even more  majestic than usual.

The Hôtel de Ville looked particularly impressive with the snow-dusted roofs and the  ice skating  rink out in front. This was also the first time I had ever seen Paris's city hall, and was not disappointed by a lack of grandeur - quite the opposite.

Eventually, though, I made it to the Louvre, about an hour after its opening, and navigated through the halls with richly decorated ceilings, briefly stopping to say hello to Nike of Samothrace, so that I could immerse myself in Renaissance art and thus study for my impending art history exam back in Aix. I wandered the halls of the great museum, staring at masterpieces of the 15th and 16th centuries, analyzing the religious symbols and searching for some hidden meaning in the carefully applied oil and gold leaf. It was tiring, to say the least. Not to mention that I started to feel as though the paintings were trying to convert me. So much religious iconography, so little time.

Eventually, I took a break from the never-ending rooms of Italian painting and went to grab a bite to eat in the food court down below the Louvre. The food was some sort of pseudo-Middle Eastern cuisine that can be found at any food court in America these days, really, and was only slightly better than average for fast, cheap French food, but that said, I devoured my dish and gulped down the accompanying soda as though they constituted my first meal in a week. I also partook of the free Wi-Fi I found while messing around with my iPod. The McDonald's was too far away to get a good signal, but the Apple store, which by my estimations should have been further away than the McDonald's, was broadcasting a lovely signal that allowed me to check my email and inform my friends of my current location in a subterranean multicultural food court underneath one of the world's greatest museums.

Lunch devoured and stomach satisfied, I returned to my painting perusal and came to the sudden and profound conclusion that late Medieval and early Renaissance artists were incapable of painting anything other than an ugly version of baby Jesus.

Baby Jesus should not look like a 35-year-old midget with a receding hairline who is creeping on Virgin Mary, who, it should be noted, appears to have no chin and an impossibly round cranium.

Nor should baby Jesus look like a Japanese representation of a European man with far too many jelly rolls. For someone as pretty and trim as Mary is in this picture, she ought to know how keep her child from obesity.

I fully understand the concept of spiritual beauty in lieu of physical beauty. In fact, I think it can be very powerful when used properly in art. Case in point: Donatello's statue of Mary Magdalene.

She is emaciated, her clothing is in tatters... there is nothing remarkable or beautiful about her physical appearance. And yet, the fact that she seems to be about to pray and is thus demonstrating her devout faith reveals a sort of inner spiritual beauty that makes the statue more powerful than if she were the Greek ideal of beauty. That is something that I can get behind. I don't really understand where all the ugly baby Jesuses are coming from... most people think that babies are adorable (it depends on the day of the week, for me). Perhaps this was the ideal for the period, though, and perhaps I shouldn't be quick to judge.


The Louvre essentially went on to consume the majority of my day. The one other major destination of my day consisted of a trip to Café Divan near the Place de la Bastille. This particular destination came at the recommendation of a friend, who insisted that I just HAD to try to their hot chocolate. Never one to say no to warm, sugary treats, I decided that hot chocolate was the very thing I needed as I relaxed from a long day of being on my feet. I lost my way at first, which I fully blame on the fact that there are far too many streets leading away from the Place de la Bastille, and finally resorted to using my handy dandy map of Parisian arrondissements to navigate the streets of the city. Eventually, I stumbled into the place looking like the lost tourist that I vaguely was and ordered a hot chocolate.


I did not expect what I received. I received a jar of hot milk and warm chocolate syrup that I was to mix on my own to achieve the desired proportions of each. Needless to say, my hot beverage was rich and thoroughly warming and made the perfect companion as I perused through a couple chapters of A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle, the book I had chosen to read during travel down time which is a necessary read for any Anglophone who has lived in Provence for any significant amount of time.


And so, that was the first half of my vacation in Paris. Unfortunately, my final and last exam of my entire year abroad is waiting to be studied for, so I must away. Merde!


More Parisian tales shall come soon, but for now...


Peace, love, and Saturday morning exams,
Rachel