The Jazzy Bahsoun

Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.

Behavioral Therapist
MA Developmental Psychology, Columbia
BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA

Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog

Movies to See:
Mission Impossible
Haywire
Shame
A Dangerous Method
Underworld:Awakening

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Portlandia
The Life & Times of Tim

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Game of Thrones
by George R.R. Martin

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El Camino

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Newt Gingrich

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Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Parisian Chronicles: Part II - Embedded with the Natives
On the first day of class, the professor asked us to say describe the goals of our trip to Paris. One of mine consisted of assimilating myself with the native Parisians and becoming as natural as they are. Little did I know that walking around Paris with a large group of loud American students, a digital camera in one hand, Rick Steves Paris Guide in the other, cargo pants in tow, it would be kind of difficult to assimilate. However, on my second full day in Paris, the day of the France vs. Portugal World Cup match, we thought we would party up Parisian style. That is go to a bar and watch the game. And so we did. As I arched my neck to see what little of the television I could, a native propped himself in front of my line of vision, amply blocking the rest of the TV.

....short shorts and all. It was then that I decided that maybe assimilating with the natives wasn't my best course of action. At the post-game festivities, I changed my mind.

Americans with all their rabid sports-fansiness should be ashamed of themselves. The utter joy and excitement that the French expressed that night after the semi-final match was pure maddness. Walking back from the bar, there was non-stop honking, screaming, singing, flag-waving, flare-lighting...just general happiness, which except for a few thrown bottles, was surprisingly non-violent. We're used to flipping over cars and setting people on fire after a Lakers game but this was much different. Guys stuck their heads out of car windows and proposed marriage to the girls we were walking with, they wooed at us and we wooed back (did you know "woo" is the same in French as it is in English?). Even the ambulances turned on their sirens in rhythm with the honking to show their solidarity with Les Bleues.

My erratic filming and slurred words may seem merely headache and vomit inducing but I filmed in that fashion on purpose, to convey the utter pandemonium and exuberance of the night. As long as we were fans of Les Bleues, they didn't care where we were from. So we pumped our fists and cheered with our fellow Parisians. We chanted "Allez les Bleues" with our fellow Parisians. We ran across the street into traffic, nearly killing ourselves with our fellow Parisians.

When we got back to Place de Shitalie, the mayhem was increased ten-fold. A huge mass of people had formed in front of the Centre Commercial by our hotel singing, cheering and watching. Fireworks were being set off and cars were jumped on.

And then there was Papy Dance. His joy stemmed more from people actually watching him at his post in front of the mall next to our hotel than from the football victory that night.

What was most disconcerting about Papy Dance was not an aged Parisian whoring himself to young people past his bedtime, but it was when his CD player died during "YMCA"... and the crowd began to disperse as he tried to fix it...

But they came back to dance with Papy Dance once he fixed his high-tech equipment.

The festivities continued for a long while into the night. To further prove my messiah status, I suggested to the one compadre who had stayed with me to observe the mayhem outside Shitadines, Kyla, that we return to the safety of the hotel. As I suggested this, this strapping young men in uniform showed up...

...shields, batons and tear gas in hand.

The next day, the professors decided to slam us back to earth by taking us on a field trip to the Musee d'Orsay. While an excellent museum with stunning works of art, it totally annulled any sort of Parisian-assimilating I had accomplished the night before...with poses such as this one.

While poses like that one are used to produce relatively nice pictures, I now realize how lame I look in the process. Art demands sacrifice, I suppose.

But honestly, in Paris you never run out of things to take pictures of. We overheard this pretentious guy from UC Santa Barbara talking at "Shakespeare and Co," an English bookstore by Notre Dame, about how people taking pictures, "are just trying to speed up the moment, man." Whatever the hell that means...prick. In Paris, there's always a building to see or a breathtaking view to observe...

...that just beg to be documented. During my sejour in Paris I would try to document without being too obvious. No telephoto lenses hanging around my neck, grazing the top of my fanny pack. This photographer would be slick and inconspicuous. Or at least I'd try. And if anyone gave me lip, I'd yell at them in French. But seriously...

...I take some damn good pictures.

To come in Part III of the Parisian Chronicles: a Fishing Village, World Cup Final Saddness, more culture shoved down our throats and more Japanese photography.
1:07 AM
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