My husband and I spent the afternoon in Pére Lachaise, the largest cemetery in Paris, and one of my favorite spots in the city.
It's home to over 300,000 resting bodies, amongst them: Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Honoré de Balzac, Frédéric Chopin, Marcel Proust, Abélard and Héloïse, Sarah Bernhardt, Molière, Gertrude Stein, Colette, Georges Méliès, Richard Wright, Camille Pissarro, Marcel Marceau, Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, Max Ernst, Gustave Doré, and Isadora Duncan.
You know. Just a few names you might recognize.
It's the kind of cemetery that People Who Like Cemeteries fantasize about. It's a complete world, a miniature city, a tranquil haven. It's beauty and sheer enormity inspires poetry and sketches and picnics and sad love songs.
AND . . . it's filled with weird stuff like this:
Does anyone else think we should call Buffy?
It's already time for bed — this late night blogging habit of mine needs to cease! — but here are a few more quick shots:
(♥ Yes, I kissed it! ♥)
And, finally, with a friend . . .
Talk with you all again soon. Thank you for your support and excitement of Anna and the French Kiss! Your comments and tweets and Facebook messages have made me so, so happy.
I interrupt my Paris travel blog for a piece of exciting news.
At least . . . it's exciting to ME.
I've just been given the okay from my publisher to announce my new title! Remember when Anna and the Boy Masterpiece was once called Anna and the English French American Boy Masterpiece? Well. Say "hello" to my new — and final! — title:
Anna and the French Kiss
Cute, non?! And you know how I feel about kissing!
As much as I loved my old titles, Dutton was looking for something that said "young adult romance in Paris." I've always been hesitant to put the word "Paris" directly into the title, because that conjures up a specific type of book (which Anna both does and does not fit into). So this is a wonderful solution! And how appropriate for me to be able to announce it while I'm here *in* Paris.
Squee!
Many, many, MANY huge thanks and hugs to Kiersten White and Paula Does-Not-Have-A-Public-Blog, who simultaneously thought of it one late, panicked night last November. They have each saved my butt so many times I've lost count. Friends are the best!
Especially when you are title deficient, like myself.
I hope to have many more things to share with you in the coming months — a publishing date! A cover! A synopsis! These are in the works, and I'm thrilled with them all. My publisher gets Anna.
(And they get The Boy, who remains a masterpiece with or without the title. Oh man, I LOVE The Boy. I'm very excited to tell you about him. Soon!)
One more pretty picture, because I'm feeling pretty.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to change my title on approximately one hundred different websites.
My fridge here is filled with dairy. Glorious, glorious French dairy. CHEESE. BUTTER. And YOGURT. Ohmystars, THE YOGURT.
I would consider moving here just for the yogurt.
The yogurt section of a supermarché is astronomically large, about the size of a frozen pizza section in an American grocery store. And I wish I could read the packaging, but I can't, so I just buy one of everything that looks good.
AND IT'S *ALL* GOOD.
No corn syrup or artificial flavorings. Just delicious, fatty goodness. Plain yogurt is my favorite — I found one that's whipped and frothy, and it's like eating the clouds of Care-a-Lot — but I'm also currently enjoying 70% dark chocolate and lychee raspberry.
I love any country that loves lychees.
My cereal, for the record, also has 70% dark chocolate in it. (HELLO, PARIS. YOU ARE AWESOME. LET'S MAKE OUT.)
A few more for the foodies:
Can't go wrong with the classics.
Don't let looks fool you. This flan-like-pastry was insane.
I had it at an amazing restaurant near la Tour Eiffel (as the French call it), which my new friends, Barb and Paul, took me to. I met them through the super-fun Daisy Whitney, a fellow 2010 young adult debut author. Her novel, The Mockingbirds, hits stores next fall. I can't wait to read it! You also might recall that I met Daisy in San Francisco last November.
Anyway, Barb and Paul are Daisy's parents-in-law, and they are FABULOUS. They've traveled everywhere, and they know everyone, and they're incredibly funny and generous.
Love them!
And seriously, you guys. Look at their apartment! It's like something out of a magazine.
And they're the kind of people whom, after only knowing them for ten minutes, I found myself posing for the camera in their bedroom.
Not like THAT.
Like this!
Thanks for a fantastic evening, Barb and Paul! And thank you so much, Daisy, for introducing us.
I'm off to bed, but if you haven't voted in the comments of my Hot Boys of the Louvre post, please consider doing so. It's turned into a battle between Léon Reisener (Darcy) and Alexandre Colin (street urchin). My favorite comment so far is this one from Majo: "Alexandre comes first in my list, but I totally would not mind a kiss from Leon. Actually, I'd just let Alexandre and Leon get at it at fisticuffs for me. I'd take whichever one won, or maybe the one who lost in a more dignified way. It'd be a tough decision."
EXCELLENT. Bonus points for using the word "fisticuffs," one of my favorites.
Two commenters have said Alexandre resembles Orlando Bloom, but he's also been compared to John Cusack and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Meanwhile, Léon has been compared to, obviously, Mr. Darcy, and a hybrid Ethan Hawke with John Cusack's mouth.
[Creepy Uncle, for the record, also has a few votes. I like your style, readers! But let's not let him win.]
Darcy versus Urchin
I'll keep the voting open until I hit the Louvre again with my husband next week, during which I'll crown one of them THE HOTTEST DUDE OF THE LOUVRE. And then I'll reveal his super-secret location, because let's face it: the cute ones aren't on the map.
OH. WAIT.
I have to defend myself from another comment before I go. My pal Amber Lough had the nerve to say:
"I was going to vote for the creepy uncle, but then I realized something...you don't like blondes, do you? Or redheads? Because the only blonde on that list is Mr. Martin. Or, maybe, blondes didn't sit well for paintings?"
No, no, no! While it's certainly true I lean towards brown hair (as evidenced by my husband), I'm an equal opportunity admirer. I assure you, there were NO blondes nor redheads whom ANYONE would consider attractive in ANY day or age in the Louvre.
Or, if there are, the museum did a stellar job of hiding them.
And yes, My Celebrity Boyfriend Chris Martin is quite put-out that you would think I don't like blondes. And you all know what this means, right? HE WAS MENTIONED. Which means I get to post another picture!
It's the rules. Having a blog iz the awesome!!
But what's he trying to tell me? Maybe if it wasn't so late . . . and my brain wasn't so tired . . .
I am totally looking out for you. This post could be about how I saw the Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo or whatever, but NO. It's NOT. It's about CUTE GUYS.
You're welcome.
For the record, it's really, really, really difficult to find attractive men inside the Louvre. Not that there aren't plenty of them walking around — the natives are quite well-dressed and groomed and such — but that would be exceedingly creepy on my behalf to take their photographs. Even for me. So you'll just have to picture them on your own. (Feel free to exaggerate their good looks, as it's your daydream.)
But it's hard to find attractive guys in ART. There are oodles of beautiful, seductive women baring their breasts. As my sister and I commented, painting after painting of "Whoops! My boob slipped out!" Which is fine. I get this. No complaints.
BUT the lack of beautiful, seductive men is way unfair! Instead, fine art museums are filled with ugly, grumpy men with peculiar facial hair and satiny tights. So I figured I'd do the job no one else seems to be doing. I'd find the handsome men, collect them, and bring them back here for your pleasure.
For the record, there are thousands of paintings in the Louvre. And this was the best I could do.
Self-portrait of Louis David. I think most of us can agree moody artists are hot.
Jean-Pierre Cortot (painted by INGRES). He looks worried and tragic!Swoon.
Self-portrait of Alexandre Colin. Slightly street urchin-ish. Still. I'd kiss him.
Charles William Bell (LAWRENCE). Not quite my type, but pretty good, all things considered. A bit like Hugh Grant in Sense and Sensibility, maybe?
Maurice Quay (RIESENER). Too scruffy for my sister, but I like him. He could be the hero of a swashbuckling adventure story.
I'm just testing if you're still paying attention. This was totally someone's creepy uncle.
Antonio Canova (LAWRENCE). What do we think? I'm reminded of Gabriel Byrne.
OHMYGOD, DARCY IS THAT YOU?!?!?!?!
The last one is Léon Reisener, also a painter (but different from the above Reisener), and cousin of the artist, Eugène Delacroix. He ties with Jean-Pierre Cortot for my top vote.
Who gets your vote? Leave a comment, and we'll crown a winner THE HOTTEST DUDE OF THE LOUVRE.
Oh! And I also saw The Coldplay Painting.
Which means, by the rules of my blog, I am thus allowed to post a picture of My Celebrity Boyfriend Chris Martin in front of the same picture.
He looks exhausted. But sweet!
I hope you're all having a wonderful weekend. Stay tuned for more updates from the (horrible, sad, tragique, my job is sooOOoooOooo hard) trenches of Paris.
In my Professional Opinion, ALL statues should be kissing statues.
Bonsoir, everyone! Thank you so, so much for your wonderful comments. I'm sorry I haven't had time to comment back, but I'm loving them all. Thanks for sharing in my excitement and for the fantastic tips. My to-see and to-eat lists are growing long.
(Especially huge thanks to Sarah — who is in Italy right now! — for the tip about the annoying bracelet dudes around the Sacre Coeur. Wow. You weren't kidding.)
I've had a request for pictures of food — thank you, Mariah! — and I am more than happy to oblige:
Nutella and banana crêpe = edible magic
The window display at Gregory Renard.
Onion soup! In France! Which means it's . . . yeah.
The last few days have been COLD — tiny painful fingercicle cold — so when I ordered the onion soup, I also wanted a warm drink. Unfortunately, I was under a bit of pressure to order quickly. So I flipped over my menu to the beverage section and scanned frantically.
At least dairy in France is exceptionally delicious. And it was all frothy and stuff. And hot. And did I mention how *cold* it is here? So it turned out okay.
(Still. I ordered HOT MILK, you guys.)
I made up for it that evening with chocolat chaud (hot chocolate) at Angelina. Three people have recommended it to my sister and I, so we had to try it!
AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
Heavy and sinful, topped with fresh rich whipped cream.
And, of course, I had to try their macarons. Clockwise, from top left: mandarin/passionfruit, Mont Blanc, dark chocolate/raspberry, matcha/chocolate.
Very pretty, though [I almost feel bad to type this] I've had tastier macarons in America! Ack! The mandarin/passionfruit was the yummiest. It had this neat delayed zing.
And my sister ate this. We forgot what it was.
Again, pretty. But not nearly as tasty as the hot chocolate. When Jarrod visits later this month, I'll return with him and stick to the chocolat chaud!
But never fear with the less-than-perfect pastries. Today I spotted a Ladurée truck! As far as macarons are concerned, Ladurée is a Big Deal. I'll definitely be stopping in at least one of their shops.
They should have an armored guard behind that thing.
Oh. And I also saw this. I'm not sure what it is, but it was really really tall, and I saw a bunch of people making ridiculous poses in front of it.
As you see, I made it! And I have not embarrassed myself too badly. Yet. I'm being brave and semi-talking to people, and I've only accidentally said "gracias" instead of "merci" once.
Oops.
My sister and I had an easy flight in, an easy taxi ride to our apartment (complete with funky techno beatz), and an easy time orienting ourselves to the neighborhood. The only hitch was that the phone and internet weren't working in our apartment when we arrived, so we couldn't tell our families how easy it was.
They were a wee concerned when we finally got in touch with them the next day.
Thank goodness for Manning Krull, winner of my new "Superhero Friend" award. Manning, you may recall, designed my FABULOUS website last fall and runs a great site called Cool Stuff in Paris that not only has detailed lists of practical things you should know before traveling, but also tells you about the weird places to visit.
I am a big fan of weird.
Anyway, Manning is a superhero for a billion reasons, but mainly because he is very, very friendly and helpful, AND he helped us buy a cell phone here! AND set it up in English! AND, if it weren't for him, we wouldn't have found out about the Musée des arts forains, an amazing private museum of antique carnival odds and ends which had it's last public day today.
I mean, look at all the awesome stuff we would have missed:
A bicycle carousel!
A creepy unicorn costume!
A racing waiters game!
And this very, very uncomfortable Mickey Mouse:
If I had a pole up my butt, I'd make that face too.
Manning also told us about La Sainte-Chapelle, a gorgeous Gothic chapel with crazy-huge stained glass windows that I'd never heard of. He told us to go on a sunny day, which are rare here this time of year, and — miraculously — when my sister and I woke up this morning, IT WAS SUNNY.
It's breathtaking in person. You'll just have to trust me.
(Thank you, Manning!)
My sister and I also made it to the Île de la Cité's exotic bird market, Marché aux Oiseaux, which happens every Sunday. There weren't a toooon of birds, but those they DID have were quite beautiful. [Even though, I must confess, birds in cages make me squirm a bit. Not that it's any different from rodents raised to live in cages, which I am certainly guilty of owning.]
I thought these pale orange canaries were especially pretty. I can't recall ever seeing any in America, though no doubt they're there somewhere!
I won't show you everything I do on this trip — that would be wretchedly boring of me — but here are a few more things I saw this weekend:
I WANT TO MARRY THIS CAR.
The shadow of Voltaire's statue in his crypt.
Your guess is as good as mine.
That last one was taken inside Le Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette, Madame du Barry, and several other historical figures I am mildly obsessed with were held prisoner before being sent to the guillotine.
I must admit, it's a much different experience traveling when I have time to explore everything. A much better experience! There's no rush, no panic, no "I have to do these fourteen things before I leave tomorrow or I'll regret it for the rest of my life." I'm enjoying the leisurely lunches in cafés (best so far: panini with goat cheese, arugula, and tomato) and the wandering and window shopping.
And I am REALLY enjoying this:
OMG OMG OMG!!!!
I'm grinning like an idiot, because I am *living* one of the most important moments in my novel. And because I know I have an entire month to get this picture again without the other tourists in the background.
HA!
[If you'd like to see more pictures, and you aren't following me on Twitter, I'm posting one a day here on Twitpic. Be sure to click on the pictures — ah hem, Mom — to see them better.]
None of these pictures were taken by me. I was too busy enjoying the JUNGLE MUSIC and the CANDY COLORS.
If you've ever been to the Detroit Metro Airport, you already know about the Psychedelic Party Tunnel. If you haven't, the only thing you need to know is that the Psychedelic Party Tunnel is THE GREATEST TUNNEL OF ALL TIME.
Seven hundred feet of strange music synchronized to sweeping color. Traveling on its moving walkways is something akin to accepting a boat ride from Willy Wonka.
It is more than enough to distract oneself from that whole Nigerian terrorist thing.
So here I am. In Detroit. With an eight hour layover. Doo dee doo.
Oh, by the way?
I AM ON MY WAY TO PARIS.
I'm renting a (teeny tiny) apartment on the Île Saint-Louis, one of two natural islands in the center of Paris. (The other is the Île de la Cité, home of my favorite Famous French Thing, Notre-Dame). Here's a description from About.com, because I'm too lazy to think of a better one:
"This small island is like an oasis from the rush of the city. It's almost as if someone dropped a small French village into the center of Paris, as it features markets, bakeries, fromageries and cafés. While much of Paris has modernized over the years, the ile remains romantically frozen in the 17th century."
Charming, non?
And I'll be living there for the ENTIRE MONTH of January.
Me. In Paris! Staying here:
Pictures of my new apartment are larger than real life.
After spending the last few years reading book after book on the subject, it's difficult to believe I'll actually BE there. Tomorrow. I'll walk where my characters walk, eat what they eat, see what they see.
I'm choking up — in this very public airport — just thinking about it.
My sister has graciously offered to accompany me the first week. This is because I am, in short, a Giant Weenie. And my sister is brave. So when I'm too terrified to leave the apartment in fear of offending someone with my heinous American ways (even when I know better than to think that!), my sister will kick my butt out the door. And when I'm too scared to say something in fear of butchering their beautiful language, my sister can botch the words for me. Ha!*
[NOTE TO MY SISTER: You did agree to this, right? Right??]
The second week, I'll be solo. Which will be . . . good for me. And the third and fourth weeks, my husband will be there.
So.
Yeah.
I'm going to Paris.
Weird, huh? I mean, it's not weird. It's perfectly natural. People go to Paris all the time. But . . . it still feels weird. France means something different to me. The only thing I can compare it to is if C.S. Lewis got to vacation in Narnia. Even though Paris is a real, tangible place — one I've even been to, albeit years ago — it doesn't feel that way anymore. I've created something there. I have inserted false memories into its monuments, restaurants, and parks.
And I'm about to see those places.
Freaky.
If all goes according to plan,I'll be blogging and tweeting my adventures. Expect tales of pastries, cemeteries, and Famous Stuff! I will try my best to be brave for you.** Please send happy, warm, fuzzy thoughts my way.***
And HAPPY NEW YEAR! Feel free to leave bogus resolutions in my comments.
I'M COMING FOR YOU, MACARONS.
* The handful of people who have already read Anna will recognize something in this paragraph. Yeah. Those first few chapters? The similarities are most certainly intentional.
** Seriously, you guys. I am really nervous. Did you know they speak FRENCH in France? Did you know that I do NOT speak French? *** I mean, it's awesome, right? The going to France thing? So why can't I breathe? Should I take another ride in the Psychedelic Party Tunnel? When is my sister getting here?? WHEN DOES SHE ARRIVE???
Jarrod arrives in France.
Does anyone else think we should call Buffy?
(♥ Yes, I kissed it! ♥)
