Halloween, not for Paris!

I had long reckoned Halloween to be a sort of special day in Paris. Well, it kind of was, but less far than I'd expected. I spent the evening with "Walking Sunday", a weekly organized walking-tour by Science Po, at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. I thought the visit was really appropriate for the day - cemetery and Halloween, but turned out it wasn't exactly the best time to pay a visit since everyone probably thought the same as I did. I shall go back alone again, perhaps on a snowy morning of Sunday. It must be a more pleasant and spooky visit. I didn't get to see all those famous graves - be it Chopin, Marcel Proust, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde - along with many other famous dead. We ended up having some drinks nearby (the graveyard) and I decided to catch a metro back for dinner.


Soon came the night, I was on my supposedly Casper costume I got (from the night I snuck in in my host brother's room when he was away). I was quite satisfied, with the additions of fake nails and black goggles - I was all set ready to go! It wasn't long after when I decided to come back home. A good 'buddy' of mine with some other friends of us went to this party (organized by International Affairs Association of Sciences Po) at a pub called Cap Rouge (23 Rue Mouffetard) in the 5th arrondissement. The place was a rat hole; there wasn't at all space to move. The most disappointing was probably the vibe; very few made an effort to jazz themselves up for the night and the place was rather dull. Between waiting for other friends and attempting to make the decision on where we were heading to, I realized I might best catch the last train home. The plan of going to ShowCase - the supposedly biggest Halloween party in Paris - was perished. We bid each other goodnight. I was back on the train in my costume thinking how more demoniac the night could have turned out had I been in Bangkok.

4 essays due this month. I guess I should go to sleep now. Another day off to muscle tomorrow!

*On the way back, I supposed the girls ,too, didn't have their best Halloween...

Broken

2:15 a.m.

Fear was felt and the thought swirled into anxiety. It wasn't too certain; it was far yet it was monumentous. Powerless and small. Shattered by my own curiosity and relentlessness. Forsaken I have, but what was I to do to retain myself in the unchanged? Stray and swayed in inconsistency. I was stuck in dichotomy of what was thought to be absolute, the opposite was yet to be found.The mind was wandering about, but must one know where he stood? Weak and powerless. The proud is stumbled in self-defeat. It peaked and slowly remedied. Another day was yet to come and it went on.

Underground Stories

In spite of its untidy and rarely a piss-like smell, I still find my underground travels in Paris quite enjoyable. I remember taking a train (RER B) for the first time from Charles de Gaulle airport to my residence near La Defanse and how much I enjoyed an accompanied sound of violin strung by an old man. There are many real talents out there both under and on the streets of the city, and I quite like them as far as I don't end up tipping involuntarily.

I was in St. Michel metro station the other day, and a recognizably Southeastern European lady stood just after the yellow line on the opposite side and started to sing a supposedly her traditional folk song loudly. Though understandably pestered by some in the crowd, I found it rather intriguing - hence stood watching for some minutes and missed a couples of trains as a result. In the train moments after, I managed to have myself comfortably seated and started to read a newspapers I grabbed from the campus. There, I again heard a familiar song sang by a lady. As she walked closer did I recognize her to be one of the Roms begging for money. Shunned by almost all the passengers she was trying to solicit from, I, also, felt contemptuous towards what was happening at first. But as she went on begging sadly, I started to felt sympathetic for her. I don't want to carry on talking about the whole Gypsies situation in France, but I simply think they deserve some space and acceptance from the people, especially the Parisians. We really live in the capitalism, don't we?

Just yesterday when I was walking down the metro to catch a train home, again, I was struck by an assembly of happy musicians who were musing their instruments and singing in harmony. It's seemed to me that there is no better way to travel to and from Paris than descending down its busy underground.