Let's hope it's a long series.
So I decided to forgo having a sit-down meal, or even opting to hit the American Embassy (you know, the one with the golden arches) and went uber-cheap for dinner tonight. With a trip to the Casino.
No, no, not a gaming joint. Casino is a supermarket chain here. And while this goes against the whole über-European ideal of buying little things from the local bakery, cheesemonger, deli, etc., you have to keep in mind that until I find an apartment, I'm in Clichy.
Being in Paris while actually staying in Clichy is like... being in San Francisco while actually staying in Daily City. Without the awesome dim sum... Like being in Los Angeles while actually staying in Van Nuys. Without the killer Mexican food... Like being in New York City while actually staying in Jamaica/Queens. Without the cheap crack...
Ok, enough badmouthing Clichy. I did that on my last trip here, and one of these days after some gentrification and real estate speculation, I'm sure it'll be an affluent suburb with wonderful things like Outback Steakhouse, PF Changs, and Elephant Bar. Er.. maybe not.
Back to dinner. So I went to Casino and picked up some chips, a few apples, and a whole shitload of Badoit.
Badoit is my favorite mineral water. I blame the evil bitch waitress at San Francisco's Le Zinc for getting me hooked on it. At $9 a bottle, it may as well be a mild form of heroin. Lightly effervescent, smooth-tasting heroin. Then I started buying it for $3 a bottle at a French restaurant supply place in Brisbane. But you know how much it is here? Fifty mothaf***in' cents. Even at our godawful exchange rate, that's barely 75 US cents a bottle.
This is all due to the economies of scale. For as environmentally progressive as Europe is, Parisians drink a shitload of bottled water. And as you may well know, bottled water is one of the most evil things for the environment. The wasted bottling materials, the polluting transport, the billions wasted on marketing - all for stuff you can just get out of the tap and be hydrated just the same. But here, they drink it like it's going out of style. The bottled water consumption here makes those pony-tailed MILFs toting litres of Evian at LA gyms look like utter lightweights. France may be all about green transit, green construction, green spaces - but the ultimate institution here is the green of a bottle of Perrier.
But you know who the asshole is here? Me, that's who. Not because I should know better than to buy bottled water, but because tonight, I was that guy. The culturally unsavvy bastard who did the unthinkable: Hold up the grocery store line.
The checker rang up my armload of water, my chips, and then she got to my bag of apples. She machine-gunned something at me in French. I tried my hardest to answer the question. "Euhhh... les pommes? Elles sont les pommes.. uhhh.. Gala?" She shook her head, obviously not asking what kind of apples they were. She machine-gunned again. This time I caught something about a tag and the weight. Instead of dumping the apples, though, she was patient - despite the huge queue behind me - and allowed me to go back to the produce section to figure out exactly what I had to do.
So with a mob of frustrated Frenchmen behind me, I went looking for a scale. Or those little tags that you use at the bulk bins at hippie grocery stores. Neither were anywhere to be seen. Then I saw some contraption where you lay your produce, punch the button bearing the picture of what you're buying, and it spits out a little barcode ticket. I did a little victory dance and laughed as I slapped the ticket on my bag, oblivious to the fact that the line of Frenchmen was growing larger and ever more disgruntled. I came back all proud of myself, beaming that I'd somehow figured out how to buy a bag of apples in France.
The checker looked at me like the idiot that I am.
The apple I had for dinner was absolutely delicious, by the way. And blissfully cheap.
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Across the Top of Paris
On the last trip, I dragged poor Alannah to cut a diagonal swath across Paris on foot. I promised her I wouldn't subject her to torture like that again, so now that I'm here on my own, I figured I'd continue my quest to carve up the City of Light on foot, like some sort of butcher's diagram.
If Paris is a pig facing left, then I started out in the ham, moved up and across the loin chops, and ended up in the shoulder. Ok, considering the number of halal butcher shops I walked by, maybe the pork allegory isn't appropriate. So here's a map:
It's Sunday, so I knew that other than the tourist spots and crazy department stores, there'd be little that's open. So I figured I'd look to an area where they don't consider Sunday a pesky day of rest: Belleville. Not only is it a huge ethnic enclave and home to Paris' second Chinatown, but it's probably the only area I hadn't visited before.
Most visitors don't wind up in Belleville, and it's a shame. Sure, there's no huge tower or Napoleonic arch or famous museum to speak of. But the bustling streets and overflowing shops are a sure reminder that Paris isn't just a romantic city founded on the artistic merits of Van Gogh and Baudelaire - it's also multicultural collage comprised of Chinese markets, Kosher delis, Arabic take-outs, and all manner of sights and smells.
Unfortunately, my first whiff of Belleville was courtesy of a skanky heroin junkie throwing herself at me when I got out of the Metro. "Please!" she begged. "I'll do anything for a little bit of money." You know, behind the two black eyes, track marked arms, and stink of a week without bathing, she was probably hot to trot. But not only am I faithful to my gal, I'm amazingly discriminating.
Except maybe when it comes to food. Passing by all the roast ducks in windows, freshly grilled meats, and tantalizing deep fried who-knows-what, I walked into... McDonald's.
I can't help it. I'm a total whore to advertising. Ever since I landed, I've been seeing these billboards for le P'tit Indien ("The Li'l Indian"), a new sandwich served under the golden arches of the American Embassy. The ad shows off a little pile of turmeric, some coriander leaves, and cinnamon sticks. And I'm of the firm belief that curry can make anything short of your Aunt Missy's Jell-O ambrosia taste great. And thus, le P'tit Indien is pretty good. Great? No. It's basically a McChicken laced with curry powder. But with a carton of hot fries and a cold Kronenbourg 1664, it's a totally respectable fast food meal. Ok, maybe not respectable. Acceptable, perhaps? Alright, I'm reaching. But I still believe in my curry theory.
Turning north, I walked alongside most of the length of the Canal St. Martin. It's placid and peaceful, lined with some newly trendy eating and drinking establishments. The whole quiet factor is increased manifold by the fact that it's closed to vehicular traffic on Sundays. As the sun came out, I was surrounded by people fishing in the canals, families strolling down the street, and all manner of pretty girls cruising by on their free Vélib rental bikes.
Vélib is amazing, and going by the number of empty dispenser stalls, it's a rousing success. It's a system where you go and check out a bike from one of 300 automated bike racks, and drop it off at any other one. The first 30 minutes of each rental are free, so as long as you drop off your bike as soon as you get to your next destination, you can pedal around the city totally free. Apparently, this program is a lifesaver during the many times the Parisian transit workers go on stirke. I can only wish we had something like this in the San Francisco, so I wouldn't ever have to get on the filthy Muni again. (For more info on Vélib and how it works - check it out here.)
Speaking of strikes, I have the TV on right now, and apparently CNN here plays a French edition of the Daily Show with an intro monologue that's more geared toward folks in France. Here's a bit from Jon Stewart's bit that just played: "As you may know, here in the US, the writers are on strike. Or as those of you in France would call it... EVERY DAY."
Despite it being a gloriously strike-free day, I continued along my march across Paris, following the tree-lined boulevards of La Chapelle, Rochechouart, Pigalle, and Clichy. And yes, that's the stretch that - if you've studied your guidebooks - is considered the seediest, most dangerous strip in Paris. I may have said it on the last trip, but if this is the worst part of Paris, those guidebook writers must be living in some sort of whitewashed ivory tower. Yeah, there's a sex shop or two or ten. Yeah, you've got a few thug types hanging around. But there are just as many parents rollerblading with their kids, old couples strolling hand-in-hand, and more of those pretty girls on bicycles. I don't know - maybe the authors out there are just scared of anything ethnic or a bit more risqué. I know shit's gone down in front of some of the bars and that some people get hassled walking around this area. But this is nothing compared to half the neighborhoods in San Francisco or New York or LA. Then again, maybe I'm just desensitized by America's love for thug life. Who knows?
Although I entertained the idea of walking the rest of the way, my feet were pretty beat by the time I got to Place de Clichy, so I hopped on the Metro and went four stops back to my hotel.
Maybe I should've walked.
The train was packed. Not so much with people, but with their things. What with the soldes going on, people are getting on board with rucksacks, duffel bags, and freakin' suitcases of marked down items they've bought from the department stores. At first I thought there was a sudden influx of tourists on good ol' Ligne 13, but no - I was being packed like a sardine in a tin can full of mass consumerism.
Oh well - at least they use public transit, huh?
If Paris is a pig facing left, then I started out in the ham, moved up and across the loin chops, and ended up in the shoulder. Ok, considering the number of halal butcher shops I walked by, maybe the pork allegory isn't appropriate. So here's a map:
It's Sunday, so I knew that other than the tourist spots and crazy department stores, there'd be little that's open. So I figured I'd look to an area where they don't consider Sunday a pesky day of rest: Belleville. Not only is it a huge ethnic enclave and home to Paris' second Chinatown, but it's probably the only area I hadn't visited before.
Most visitors don't wind up in Belleville, and it's a shame. Sure, there's no huge tower or Napoleonic arch or famous museum to speak of. But the bustling streets and overflowing shops are a sure reminder that Paris isn't just a romantic city founded on the artistic merits of Van Gogh and Baudelaire - it's also multicultural collage comprised of Chinese markets, Kosher delis, Arabic take-outs, and all manner of sights and smells.
Unfortunately, my first whiff of Belleville was courtesy of a skanky heroin junkie throwing herself at me when I got out of the Metro. "Please!" she begged. "I'll do anything for a little bit of money." You know, behind the two black eyes, track marked arms, and stink of a week without bathing, she was probably hot to trot. But not only am I faithful to my gal, I'm amazingly discriminating.
Except maybe when it comes to food. Passing by all the roast ducks in windows, freshly grilled meats, and tantalizing deep fried who-knows-what, I walked into... McDonald's.
I can't help it. I'm a total whore to advertising. Ever since I landed, I've been seeing these billboards for le P'tit Indien ("The Li'l Indian"), a new sandwich served under the golden arches of the American Embassy. The ad shows off a little pile of turmeric, some coriander leaves, and cinnamon sticks. And I'm of the firm belief that curry can make anything short of your Aunt Missy's Jell-O ambrosia taste great. And thus, le P'tit Indien is pretty good. Great? No. It's basically a McChicken laced with curry powder. But with a carton of hot fries and a cold Kronenbourg 1664, it's a totally respectable fast food meal. Ok, maybe not respectable. Acceptable, perhaps? Alright, I'm reaching. But I still believe in my curry theory.
Turning north, I walked alongside most of the length of the Canal St. Martin. It's placid and peaceful, lined with some newly trendy eating and drinking establishments. The whole quiet factor is increased manifold by the fact that it's closed to vehicular traffic on Sundays. As the sun came out, I was surrounded by people fishing in the canals, families strolling down the street, and all manner of pretty girls cruising by on their free Vélib rental bikes.
Vélib is amazing, and going by the number of empty dispenser stalls, it's a rousing success. It's a system where you go and check out a bike from one of 300 automated bike racks, and drop it off at any other one. The first 30 minutes of each rental are free, so as long as you drop off your bike as soon as you get to your next destination, you can pedal around the city totally free. Apparently, this program is a lifesaver during the many times the Parisian transit workers go on stirke. I can only wish we had something like this in the San Francisco, so I wouldn't ever have to get on the filthy Muni again. (For more info on Vélib and how it works - check it out here.)
Speaking of strikes, I have the TV on right now, and apparently CNN here plays a French edition of the Daily Show with an intro monologue that's more geared toward folks in France. Here's a bit from Jon Stewart's bit that just played: "As you may know, here in the US, the writers are on strike. Or as those of you in France would call it... EVERY DAY."
Despite it being a gloriously strike-free day, I continued along my march across Paris, following the tree-lined boulevards of La Chapelle, Rochechouart, Pigalle, and Clichy. And yes, that's the stretch that - if you've studied your guidebooks - is considered the seediest, most dangerous strip in Paris. I may have said it on the last trip, but if this is the worst part of Paris, those guidebook writers must be living in some sort of whitewashed ivory tower. Yeah, there's a sex shop or two or ten. Yeah, you've got a few thug types hanging around. But there are just as many parents rollerblading with their kids, old couples strolling hand-in-hand, and more of those pretty girls on bicycles. I don't know - maybe the authors out there are just scared of anything ethnic or a bit more risqué. I know shit's gone down in front of some of the bars and that some people get hassled walking around this area. But this is nothing compared to half the neighborhoods in San Francisco or New York or LA. Then again, maybe I'm just desensitized by America's love for thug life. Who knows?
Although I entertained the idea of walking the rest of the way, my feet were pretty beat by the time I got to Place de Clichy, so I hopped on the Metro and went four stops back to my hotel.
Maybe I should've walked.
The train was packed. Not so much with people, but with their things. What with the soldes going on, people are getting on board with rucksacks, duffel bags, and freakin' suitcases of marked down items they've bought from the department stores. At first I thought there was a sudden influx of tourists on good ol' Ligne 13, but no - I was being packed like a sardine in a tin can full of mass consumerism.
Oh well - at least they use public transit, huh?
Saturday, January 12, 2008
On the Road Again
The hotel's not very central, but nice. There's free WiFi. The bathroom is huge. It's clean as all hell. It's comfortable enough for me to get some rest before a couple of days of meetings.
And did I happen to mention that I'm in Paris?
Oui, mes amis, I'm in Paris again, although this time on business. I've got two days of meetings at my company's headquarters, so this is a brief sojourn, but I've got a weekend to kill ahead of the actual business part. And this time, it feels different. Besides the spectre of actually having to do work in an actual office while abroad (none of this desperately-seeking-WiFi stuff like in Japan), this is one of those cities that I've already touristed to death.
So despite it being a chilly 35ºF outside, I've got the windows wide open so I can hear the hubbub on busy Rue Général Leclerc below. The green grocer across the street is making some noise shuffling boxes of fruit and veg in front of his store. I can hear children talking their baby-talk as their parents go in and out of the boulangerie-pâtisserie at the corner. The calm of Saturday evening suburban humdrum is occasionally broken by somebody yelling, a siren wailing, or horns honking.
Indeed, it's Saturday night and I'm just sitting in my little hotel room, enjoying the ambience, and relaxing.
Not to say that it hasn't been a full day. After a comfortable but entirely sleepless 11-hour flight from San Francisco, my friend and colleague Julien - who just happened to be in Paris - picked me up and we went to drop my stuff off in the 17e. This is the neighborhood I stayed in last time, and I love it. Away from the touristy masses, but intoxicatingly Paris just the same.
We went toward l'Opera area (here's my favorite photo from that quartier the last trip) and met up with his cousin for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. Yes, I actually voluntarily decided to forgo steak frites and other such artery-clogging French delights for a tropical shrimp salad at this organic/all-natural Belgian... *gulp* CHAIN. And it was good. Damn good. God, even the chains here are better than stuff at home.
That was followed by a jaunt to the crazy retail area (home to the Galleries Lafayette, etc.) to pick some stuff up for Alannah. And when I say crazy, I mean batshit, balls-to-the-wall insane. Right now is the time for soldes, the twice-annual sale period that makes America's Black Friday look like a walk in the park. You see, there are only two periods where stores can legally have a sale (this prevents back-handed markdown practices), and with savings up to 50%, people go nuts. Whacko. As in "I'd rather just stay inside than brave those crowds to bar any potential claustrophobia" crazy.
And I'm doing exactly that. I've checked into my hotel. I'm hanging out in my skivvies despite the freezing cold. And I'm taking it all in.
And did I happen to mention that I'm in Paris?
Oui, mes amis, I'm in Paris again, although this time on business. I've got two days of meetings at my company's headquarters, so this is a brief sojourn, but I've got a weekend to kill ahead of the actual business part. And this time, it feels different. Besides the spectre of actually having to do work in an actual office while abroad (none of this desperately-seeking-WiFi stuff like in Japan), this is one of those cities that I've already touristed to death.
So despite it being a chilly 35ºF outside, I've got the windows wide open so I can hear the hubbub on busy Rue Général Leclerc below. The green grocer across the street is making some noise shuffling boxes of fruit and veg in front of his store. I can hear children talking their baby-talk as their parents go in and out of the boulangerie-pâtisserie at the corner. The calm of Saturday evening suburban humdrum is occasionally broken by somebody yelling, a siren wailing, or horns honking.
Indeed, it's Saturday night and I'm just sitting in my little hotel room, enjoying the ambience, and relaxing.
Not to say that it hasn't been a full day. After a comfortable but entirely sleepless 11-hour flight from San Francisco, my friend and colleague Julien - who just happened to be in Paris - picked me up and we went to drop my stuff off in the 17e. This is the neighborhood I stayed in last time, and I love it. Away from the touristy masses, but intoxicatingly Paris just the same.
We went toward l'Opera area (here's my favorite photo from that quartier the last trip) and met up with his cousin for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. Yes, I actually voluntarily decided to forgo steak frites and other such artery-clogging French delights for a tropical shrimp salad at this organic/all-natural Belgian... *gulp* CHAIN. And it was good. Damn good. God, even the chains here are better than stuff at home.
That was followed by a jaunt to the crazy retail area (home to the Galleries Lafayette, etc.) to pick some stuff up for Alannah. And when I say crazy, I mean batshit, balls-to-the-wall insane. Right now is the time for soldes, the twice-annual sale period that makes America's Black Friday look like a walk in the park. You see, there are only two periods where stores can legally have a sale (this prevents back-handed markdown practices), and with savings up to 50%, people go nuts. Whacko. As in "I'd rather just stay inside than brave those crowds to bar any potential claustrophobia" crazy.
And I'm doing exactly that. I've checked into my hotel. I'm hanging out in my skivvies despite the freezing cold. And I'm taking it all in.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Last Night :(
I have to be up in just over two and a half hours. I'd have gone to sleep earlier, but I need to tire myself out for tomorrow evening's plane ride home... that and I've been packing, packing, packing, after shopping, shopping, shopping.
There's almost no better backdrop for doing anything than Kyoto. It's historical, it's beautiful, and it's cosmopolitan. Like an exotic Paris with its grand avenues, its tiny streets, and its old world charm. We went there for none of this. Rather, we went so I could do a final round of consumer masness. I had to pick things up for myself, family, friends - you know how it goes. I wasn't very targeted, and I didn't have a list. Instead, I just explored various shopping areas and thought, "Ooh, so-and-so would love this," and bought up a bunch of random crap. So if you're expecting a souvenir out of this trip, don't get too hopeful - I just took the shotgun approach.
Besides, I mentioned before that I spent a ton of money on myself - particularly on photo-related stuff - so you get to see all the pictures. Alright, so I bought a king's ransom worth of random music-related things for myself, too. But I'll let you make copies, OK??
Today's biggest expense, though, was luggage. I had to get a couple of suitcases to bring back all the crap we bought. This is the most junk I've ever bought on a single trip. My mom, who's using one of the suitcases to haul her stuff back to the States, says it's the least she's ever bought. This doesn't bode well for future trips.
Anyway, I'd best get to bed. We have a super-early start, and my mom has engineered it so we're in Narita by 9:00 AM. Our flight out from there to San Francisco isn't until the 5 o'clock hour, so we're going to have a full day there.
I might have to buy another suitcase.
There's almost no better backdrop for doing anything than Kyoto. It's historical, it's beautiful, and it's cosmopolitan. Like an exotic Paris with its grand avenues, its tiny streets, and its old world charm. We went there for none of this. Rather, we went so I could do a final round of consumer masness. I had to pick things up for myself, family, friends - you know how it goes. I wasn't very targeted, and I didn't have a list. Instead, I just explored various shopping areas and thought, "Ooh, so-and-so would love this," and bought up a bunch of random crap. So if you're expecting a souvenir out of this trip, don't get too hopeful - I just took the shotgun approach.
Besides, I mentioned before that I spent a ton of money on myself - particularly on photo-related stuff - so you get to see all the pictures. Alright, so I bought a king's ransom worth of random music-related things for myself, too. But I'll let you make copies, OK??
Today's biggest expense, though, was luggage. I had to get a couple of suitcases to bring back all the crap we bought. This is the most junk I've ever bought on a single trip. My mom, who's using one of the suitcases to haul her stuff back to the States, says it's the least she's ever bought. This doesn't bode well for future trips.
Anyway, I'd best get to bed. We have a super-early start, and my mom has engineered it so we're in Narita by 9:00 AM. Our flight out from there to San Francisco isn't until the 5 o'clock hour, so we're going to have a full day there.
I might have to buy another suitcase.
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