時間の感覚

The science and psychology of time passing has been heavy on my mind as of late. Now and again the hours pass too quickly, and I feel sort of duped. Other days the hours pass like bugs in amber, as if suspended in time. If only I had control over the speed of which I perceive time, it’d be like acquiring a sort of superpower. So I’ve been researching the topic a little.

I had some familiarity with the psychology of time from a book I read in New Zealand* called “The Time Paradox” by Philip Zimbardo**. I remember the book being sort of a slime-tinted self-help book, pressuring the reader to analyze their own relationship with time and how it has affected their success or lack of success.

But in my more recent grazing with researching the perception of time, I have learned that the secret lies in noticing maximum details. Recall if you can, those hazy summers as a child when time felt endless. You noticed more. Because you were young, there were many new things to experience. New things are the easiest way to notice more. This is why my days have been feeling longer. Just about everything is new to me. Back home in the States, I arrived at many a Sunday feeling like the weekend whizzed by in the blink of an eye. This happened because I didn’t notice details, everything was familiar; my bedroom, my town, the food, friends, bars, etc. Living abroad everything is a fresh experience, even 24-month old comté. Each day holds the illusion of 50 long hours, so I find it much easier to pack a bunch of things into one weekend. Two day weekends feel like full-monty holidays. It’s all because my diluted perception of time; I’m noticing everything in microscopic detail, like a newborn.

Enough rambling about how I overthink life. Here’s what I found under the microscope for the weekend of Octobre 10th:

Around 8:00am out my attic apartment skylight. The view is only this vibrant when standing on a bar stool.

I had intended to wake up and catch the first train to Paris with a hot croissant. As it turned out, the morning temp outside was 3°C when my 6am alarm sounded off, and my warm little cave of a bed would not permit arising before the sun rose. So I slept until 8ish and caught the 09:12 train. It was sunny and beautiful in Paris, but cold as hell. However the cold was a non-issue because I was bundled in two days worth of clothing. I don’t much like carrying a bag, so on weekends I either wear the same outfit from Friday night to Sunday night, or I wear two days worth of clothing on the train and strip down to one layer once I arrive to the flat in Paris. I opted out of the metro from Saint-Lazare and decided to walk from the gare. Cover more ground why don’t you, I thought to myself, color in that Yung Paris Walker foot-map.

After exited the gare, I walked around the 8th arrondissement for a while. A whiiiile. I walked down rue de penthièvre roquépine  until a heavy thirst descended upon me. So I dipped onto a street called rue des capucines, where I thought I might find a cappuccino. No cappus, but I did stumble upon the Hop House. That’ll quench the morning thirst, I thought– a cold pint! Oui, beer for breakfast sometimes. The Spice Girls always told me to spice up my life, so I had a morning beer for the gals. As I drank a ginger-flavored ale, I thought about what shit some people might give me for picking that beer. Then I thought about the shits I didn’t give…

It was a weird little sidewalk I sat out on sipping that beer. There were grown men whipping around on razor scooters, cloaked in fashion scarfs and blazers. I’m not kidding– scarved men on razor scooters carving through the narrow streets of Paris. At least four passed just during my morning beer.

After the breakfast beer, I pressed on for a more respectable breakfast: macarons and chocolat noir. Walked my booty down to Les Marquis de Ladurée in the 1st arrondissement and purchased three macarons and their darkest bar of chocolat. I photographed them, but all of my photos are gone now, along with my phone (details about that escapade in the next post). So you’ll just have to use some imagination. But there’s no better place for a macaron than in the belly, so in a photo… The magic is lost anyway.

After my celebratory petit-déjeuner of beer and lollies, I walked over to poke around Paris’ ultimate cabinet of curiosities: the “fabled purveyor of exotic taxidermy” Deyrolle’s. It’s a place sandwiched strangely between a boring restaurant and a cool but overpriced French clothing shop*** which caters to couples who want synchronized wardrobes. I averted my eyes from the sumptuous clothes in the windows next door, and entered into Deyrolle’s.

Be sure to touch the white peacock for good luck and an escort out of the building.

Downstairs was a gift shop with notebooks, coffee-table books, gardening tools and insects preserved in lumps of resin. Toward the back of the shop– a dark, dimly-lit staircase that led up to an art exhibition space**** and to the mother of all taxidermy collections.

For Virginia: A French mushroom atlas.

Maybe it was my romanticizing macabre Paris or maybe it was the beer and macarons, but this freaky deaky shangri-la had me floatin’ on cloud nine. The vintage peppermint-green walls and the dark cherried wood made the whole joint feel like one enormous coffin. Everything was for sale and the place had quite a few visitors, but I only spotted one person actually shopping. It was a little man with a yellowing beard and horn-rimmed spectacles, inquiring about shipping of the arctic fox. Perhaps there were others shopping, but he was the only person speaking english. All the people who worked there were very soft-spoken while all the curios on display sort of screamed at you.

Brush daily to avoid this kind of tartar sauce.

Doyrelle’s had just about every animal imaginable. Perfectly preserved gerbils, iridescent beetles, a rainbow of butterflies, big game animals all the way down to tiny ants pinned to white cloth. I couldn’t make my mind up about this whole thing. I don’t exactly support killing animals to stuff and staple ’em over your fireplace. Even so, this place was fascinating. Animals are endlessly interesting to me. The diversity for shitsake!!

After Doyrelle’s, I headed home for some cheap lunch and a look at Yung Paris Walker. My flat is in the 7th arrondissement, quite near to the Eiffel Tower. I hadn’t properly appreciated how lovely and safe my neighborhood was until later that Saturday night when I got into some trouble passing through the Metro underground in a different part of town. My flat is down a quaint little rue, with everything one could dream of only a stone’s throw in every direction. Fancy an early morning café crème? Just downstairs to the left. French food? Bistro on the corner. Good phở place with a legendary name? Dong Phat, one block north. Golfball-sized food portions at $50/plate? La Fontaine de Mars two doors down. Afternoon aperitif? Across the street. Steak and frites at midnight? Through the underpass to the right. A cheap glass of the délicieux Bordeaux? Well, that’s everywhere.

My place is twenty paces under the arch, left side of the rue.

After having a bit of lunch at home I’d planned to meet some people at a pub for the rugby match. But on my “exploratory” and “creative” walk home, I’d blown two hours (aka I got real lost). By the time I got home I was hungry and tired. I had boiled eggs, salt and peppered tomatoes sliced up on toast, some cheese, some chocolate and a nap. After the nap, I resuscitated myself with bowl of coffee and headed out for some more walking. Once the sun had set, I found myself at Le Comptoir General for a dance party.

That 70’s Show, live in France

The music was a potpourri of ElectroCumbia BalkanBeat by Guatemala’s very own DJ Masaya. Pretty groovy dancing music, and Le Comptoir General was the perfect venue for this dude’s rewhips. The whole interior is like an abandoned retro barbershop that’s been reclaimed by nature. There are old signs on the walls, barbershop chairs, a black and white checkered floor, plants everywhere, vines and branches hanging from the ceiling and wrapped around the wooden warehouse beams. Plus two tiki bars with a conglomeration of gin drinks and rum punches.

By day, Le Comptoir General is a collaborative space with various boutiques sharing the open space. There is in fact a barber, plus the two bars, a restaurant, cinema, photo shop, thrift store and botanist. The thrift store actually stayed open during the nighttime dance party. I poked around looking at tchotchkes to cool off for a few minutes after sweating out my rum punch on the dance floor. While I looked at some dresses, this guy started trying to make small talk in French. We exchanged names, but quickly established that I didn’t speak French and he didn’t speak English. He went over and got his friend to be a translator. I ended up chatting with his friend for a while and the other bloke buzzed off. We chatted about French literature, the neighborhoods of Paris, college, and Le Comptoir General. He said he was there every Saturday night. Although it was only my second Saturday there, I could already see that this spot was the cat’s pajamas.

My new friend and I exchanged contact info and planned to meet up the following weekend (aka this past weekend). Unfortunately my phone bit the bullet this weekend, excommunicating me from everyone, and forcing me to abandon all previously mapped out plans. That was an adventure in it’s own way though…

Anyway back to the evening of Saturday October 10th. After a rum punch and an hour of dancing I decided to head home. Surely the party was destined to last all night, but seeing as I was truckin’ in a one-woman-wolfpack I thought it best to head home before the metro closed. It was about midnight. I walked back to the République metro stop to catch the lavender line 8 back home to École Militaire. After I got my ticket punched through the machine, this tall guy stopped me and said I’d purchased a childs fare when I should have an adult one. I disagreed and tried to step around him, but he grabbed my arm. I knew he was full of shit and trying to scam me into handing him some money. I bolted for the exit and took a taxi home. From now on, I won’t be taking the metro alone at midnight! Buncha creepers prowlin’ around at that hour. Then again, I was the one who spent an entire afternoon oogling dead animals.

The following day I sauntered around Paris some more. Hiked around the hills of Montmartre, only to find myself in the midst of la Fête des Vendanges! Twas the grape-harvesting festival for the tiny private vineyard of a monastery high on a hill in the 18th arrondissement. There were street vendors, artists, wine a’plenty, drum circles, a carousel, and drunkards swaying in the hillside brasswinds. After this, I bought a baguette and a bottle of wine for dinner with a friend. Then I walked over to the 8th arrondissement and bummed around Parc Monceau for a while, flâneuring as I do. I had a coffee and layed in the grass staring at couples smoking cigarettes and little kids slapping each other on the carousel. Later met up with my friend from Humboldt for a delightful homemade supper, wine, baguette, etc. Divine porc and the creamiest dreamiest potatoes you ever laid eyes on. Twas an everso lovely way to conclude a Sunday in Paris. Then, same as always, I caught the train back to Rouen and tucked myself to sleep in that warm little attic of mine. Vive le weekend!

Mon dieu, if you’ve really read this deep into the post I do believe you deserve some adulation. Go do something nice for yourself. Softly high-five the mirror. Come visit me in the attic of wonder and bemusement. I’ll show you macabre Paris & feed you beer and rotgut for breakfast. Come on!

*I bought the book in Wellington for some on-deck entertainment prior to boarding the ship from the northern island to the southern.

**Philip Zimbardo is a celeb if you’re a psychology nerd. He was behind the famous (well, famous for psych nerds) prison experiment at Stanford University. One of my classmates at Humboldt State University said Zimbardo grabbed her ass in an elevator once during the WPA Convention. Scandalimbardo. Gagliardo. Pervimbardo.

***The clothing shop is called The Kooples, and I must confess… The clothes only suck because I can’t afford them. My closet would be straight Koop’d up if I had the money.

****This is my dream exhibition space. If I ever have a photography show, film screening, or book-signing, it will be held upstairs at Deyrolle’s. You’re all invited.