Throwing Up in Paris.... that time I got food poisoning, 8 Decembre 2010

Head in a garbage can, puking my brains out. Here I am, at the Cité metro stop, the classiest broad in Paris. It’s hard to realize that the Notre Dame cathedral is directly above my head…. And I am here, a vertigo-inducing view of black latex garbage bag, and nothing else.

I actually like the fact that I can throw up at 11 am on a Wednesday in broad daylight, commuters brushing past, and then just hop on the metro again with zero acknowledgment, not to mention words of encouragement. It’s not that Parisians are bad-hearted people, or being rude. No, in fact I have come to find this behavior actually rather understanding. Who really wants to be bothered when they have food poisoning?

“Yeah, ça va. It’s my own fault for eating rancid cheese, don’t mind me. I just need to finish ralphing up the entirety of my internal organs and I’ll be fine. Really.” Sure I might be able to say all of that in French 5 months into my stay, but that really isn’t a conversation most people care to have, even in your native tongue. Vomiting, I have come to fine, is a deeply personal act – almost spiritual and, dare I say, cleansing. Whether I worship 100 steps above with gargoyles overhead, or here at my own delicate, silver altar… it’s the sort of experience that I care to have alone.

And that’s the sort of thing I love about Paris. Of course I miss eye contact, small talk and, most namely, hugs; but I do appreciate that I can throw up just about anywhere and no one will give me a second look. The French are private people. They have boundaries, and even if you vomit in your hand in the hallways of the Sorbonne in front of 50 of your 18-year-old classmates mere seconds after telling some geek from Tufts that no, you have not read the material (as I had previously that day), that is your business. There is no need to have someone hold your hair, let alone your hand. This anonymity, though deafening, is appreciate at times.

A few hours later I’m attempting to choke down some soup at our favorite Ramen eatery. I end up taking a nap on the table in misery, fairly certain this soup won’t be staying in me for long. Not a single waiter stops by in concern. Some may think this is rude, but in France – it isn’t. In France - I paid 1.50 for that soup and I can do whatever I damned well please with that table. We could set up a tent and a camp-stove underneath and spend the entire day watching satellite television. Nobody really cares. Maybe this is the big city mentality. Maybe everyone is just too busy to deal with the collection of weirdness Paris has to offer. Me passed out on the table? Only passably odd compared to the man painted head to toe in gold on the corner, the woman walking four identical pugs down the sidewalk, the mariachi duo on the metro. For a city, for the most part, dressed in head to toe noir it’s bizarre to realize that nobody is fazed.

And I love it. I love being left alone. Whether it’s at a restaurant with a friend over a cup of coffee, in my bedroom with a pile of books, a few hours, and no word from my host family, or here, curled up on the bathroom floor in misery – Paris is a place to be self-reliant and that I have become.

A few moments later I have retired from the tabletop to the bathroom floor. “Wow Clara, it’s time to admit defeat. Go home… you attempted to save face, but really this intoxication alimentaire has gotten the best of you. This may truly be the lowest moment of your young life, but you know what? You’re in Paris – and that kind of trumps everything.”

Bon Année!

Well, today marks the first day of the infamous Soldes here in Paris. In France, sales are government regulated - so that no one store has an advantage over the others.... they occur once in January, and once sometime in the summer. I was really planning on avoiding the entire thing.... seeing as I already have way too much already to bring back to the US in my two suitcases, plus it sounds like a complete madhouse to me.

But I was quickly thwarted. Rising around 2 pm, I spent most of the afternoon cleaning my room and doing laundry.... I had just sat down to update this blog when Alice comes storming into the house. "WHY AREN'T YOU AT THE SALES!!!!!???????" I was then called a mamin (little grandma), and drug across the street to the clothing section of the local grocery store, still wearing my pajamas. After wandering around with Alice I ended our 5 minute spree with the purchase of a jar of pickles and a bag of clementines (my two staple food groups).

Another Janvier sort of thing going on in Paris right now is les galettes de rois - KING CAKES! They look like this:

I believe it has something to do with the Three Kings.... but mostly in France it just works like this:

The youngest person at the table goes under the table and without looking picks in which order people get served.

Everyone eats the cake.

Whoever finds a small toy in their piece becomes the roi or the reine and gets to wear a crown.

It's awesome!!! And the cakes are really good. As Pascale said, every French tradition has to involve food. These are my kind of people.

Otherwise, things have been fairly tame around here. I had a lovely time ringing in the new year with Andrew and his family and friends later on the Champs-Elysées. There is nothing quite like waking up to a new year in Paris.

And thus I have retired as a tour guide to Paris.... for now.... though a handful of my best friends from SC are now scattered around Europe for the second semester - so who knows?

Well, I have just one more week of vacation ahead of me..... I'm planning to take advantage of it with a few museum trips, some sunbathing (it's been so nice! a balmy 46 degrees today), warding off creepy French men (a pleasant pastime), finishing the third season of The OC and daily trips to Monoprix (I cannot resist. The doorman knows me by face.)

Bientôt!

Clara