Being bored Blows

So yes, here I am in Paris...bored outta my mind at the moment! There's a fine line between being too happy that you're not normal and disappointing people who think that being in Paris is the ticket to having the time of my life. I've been on the "ever-so-happy" side for months, despite natural moments being on the down-side of up. But right now, I'm just plain bored. It's too darn cold to be motivated to take a walk, and my usual call-up-at-any-time friends are all gone. I'm showered, have my hair dried, and could be presentable at the drop of a dime. But for the moment, I'm in sweatpants and my favorite sweatshirt, which as much as I love it, should NOT be worn every night for a week! This is normal. It's alright, I keep saying to myself. My 662-page book, of which I'm on page 14, is the perfect accompaniment to this glass of red wine. It's Thursday night...where is the old Friends, Will & Grace, Apprentice, ER line-up when you need it?

Bright but not White

It's now 11:00 pm, and I have no idea where my day went or how so many of my "projects" for today could still be un-touched with relatively little to show for the past 13 hours! But...it did finally snow here today. It was merely a dusting which didn't stick around for long, but I managed to take one photo where you can see the contrast between a fully-bloomed flower and snow on the ground. I tried to go to the temporary Russian art exhibit at Musee d'Orsay, but the long line outside in the freezing cold deterred me. I get a potential tutoring job contact, booked a hotel room for my cousin Nic who arrives in less than a week (smile!), and tracked down the ND Club of Paris's president to inquire about a Bowl-game watch! But without much to report today, I just wanted to show these pictures from my immediate neighborhood. "Montorgueil" is the name of the pedestrian street off of which my little street is situated.

I will still be Joyeux this Noel

It's Christmas Eve, and I miss my family. I want to be with my brothers, my mom, and my dad. I want to see my aunts and uncles and consins. I want to sing "Let there be Peace on Earth" with the Gentine family tonight and joke with my cousins Nic and Paula tomorrow about when we'd be harassed to play an instrument or sing while our moms told us how much they loved it when we used our musical talents. Christmas Eve in Paris is relatively warm, and not at all white. But every time I expect to be lonely here, somebody makes sure that doesn't happen.

Yesterday was my first day of break from class, so I spent the afternoon at the Musee de Picasso (my favorite one here!). I marveled at the way his style changed over the years, and for anyone who claims to not like Picasso, I'd argue that, in this museum, I'd be shocked if you didn't find a period of his life that you really connect with. I brought my journal and sat in two different rooms and sketched. I had coffee with Henderson before he left for home, and then I had dinner with Molly and we ended up at the cafe with Melanie, Johann, Wilson, and Yann where we looked at Google Earth to find Molly's apartment in Brooklyn and mine in Chicago. Then I spent today with my friend David, helping him finish his Christmas shopping, running around to stores before they closed and going home to wrap presents before he had to bring them to a Christmas Eve dinner. And tomorrow Molly and I are preparing a light Christmas lunch to eat with her mom and Yann, as well as Sly and Wilson, who are also away from their families this holiday.

Paris is marvelous, but I wish I was in Plymouth, Wisconsin. I wanted everybody at home to have a gift from me to open tonight or tomorrow--to be somehow "present," but my packages never arrived at my parents' houses, nor did theirs arrive here. So I'm reminded about what really matters, and that is just making sure that I get to talk to everybody in my family and tell them how much I love them. And tonight I'll sing "Let there be Peace on Earth" before I fall asleep...because in the grand scheme of it all, I'm extremely blessed and thankful that my life is as it is.

An Unabashed Approach

Nobody can say I'm not trying. My approach to learning French is to just keep on usin' it--no matter how wrong I might be, no matter how strangely my usage comes across. I text-message in French, I answer people in French, I try to converse in French...and I end up telling somebody (as I did yesterday) that his jacket was "too big" instead of "quite big" when I was trying to make small talk about the cold weather.

I have put all shame aside. Par example, when I returned in October and the weather was still a bit warm, I walked into the cafe and announced at the end of the bar, "Je suis chaude!" I thought I was telling my friends that I was warm...namely that the weather was so great I had worked up a minor sweat just trompsing around. Everybody's eyes grew wide, I received some strange looks, and then David and Victor burst out laughing. Apparently I was making a sexual reference about my desire for, well, nobody in particular (yes, making it that much more bizarre). Then the other day I sent a text to David about meeting up after he finished working, only to receive a phone call from him saying, "What's going on...is something wrong?" I thought my text indicated that I was waiting, when really I said I would wait no longer. Then last night I received a text from Melanie telling me to come join her for dinner at the cafe. I texted back saying that I would be on my way (I thought)...only to receive a text back which started (in English) "I think you misunderstood me..." What I wrote wrong, I'm still not even sure! Then the last straw was a text I sent today to David Henderson, an American friend who was meeting me at the Alliance Francaise after my class. I said, "Portes ton livre et on va etudier au cafe...." I wanted to tell him to bring his book so we could study at the cafe...but instead I told him to "wear his book"!

I don't know why I'm so enamoured by learning French, but I love it. I'm really not that great (although I am an admirable faker!)...and when I run into people in the building, it's probably a good thing that I have a wide smile and a friendly face, because I know my responses seldom make much sense. I'm probably known as "that girl who cannot speak French...but oh, she tries!" But maybe it's normal...in any language. Afterall, my mom told me last night that there would be "no clitter for Christmas!" (clutter/litter....c'est normale!)

The cutest Normand ever

Getting a Christmas tree in a big city like Paris, carrying it down narrow streets and up tiny winding staircases, seems like a task and a headache. But they've developed quite an admirable system to ensure that everyone who wants a real tree for the holidays can get one quite easily. There are lots all over the city--I believe each arrondissement has at least 2 lots set up, and then most floral shops sell the trees on the sidewalk (and since the floral shops are everywhere, if you're willing to pay a bit more, you can find one no more than 10 blocks from home). After you've chosen your tree, they stuff it through a big plastic funnel, forcing the branches upward, pulling it out the back into a tight plastic net. They tie the net at the top, and your entire tree is portable and compact. The other interesting aspect of Christmas trees in France is that they don't believe in watering them. They believe in trimming the trunk and allowing the sap to seal the moisture inside. They then stick it into a half-log as a stand, and "viola," no mess, no problems forgetting to water it...and supposedly it will keep until January. So far, I haven't lost a single needle. Really, not one. The only headache involved with this tree was going shopping for lights. Sam and Henderson were with me in the BHV looking through scores of boxes, wondering how a strand of lights could be so complex (not to mention expensive!). These little Christmas lights (so little you can't even really see them in the picture..although you can see the cord!) come with a surge protector larger than one you'd find for your refrigerator...and it weighs a solid 4 pounds (you think I'm joking, but I'm not). Then, the "strand" that makes up the cord of the lights is actually 9 cords wound around each other. So here you have these little lights sticking up from 9 strands of cord, and trying to make the cord look indescrete on the tree is impossible. Nevertheless, I love my tree with its ornaments from various shops and travels. Besides, I can't celebrate Christmas away from home and not have a real tree to carry me into the new year.

About time

So, right. It has been a while. The elasticity of time sometimes stretches what seems like a few days into 18. In that space of time, I started class again, had Sam Holdridge visit, we went to Amsterdam together, I've since returned to class every day and Christmas shopping and farewells to friends going back home for the holidays. All the gifts are in the mail, I have a real tree with lights and ornaments, I've discovered how to make my own peanut sauce for stir frying, and I'm reading an amazing book. Edith got me hooked on the OC (yeah, didn't think it would happen), every major street is lit up, yet we have no snow, and I might go ice skating in the next few days either at the Eiffel Tower (on the 2nd level) or at Hotel DeVille.

Today is Leah's Birthday. I am thankful that, 28 years ago, she was born. I am equally thankful that, 7 years ago, I met her.

Here are some pictures from Sam's time in Paris and our trip to Amsterdam. One word on Amsterdam: it was amazing and deserves a much larger reputation than its legalization of marijuana and prostitution. However, being in a culture/country where weed is regulated instead of outlawed is another topic of conversation in itself. Perhaps I'll revisit it another time...but right now, I just need this post to post.

Thanksgiving and Beyond

Thanksgiving. A time to gather with friends and family and recognize the blessings and gifts (intangible, more than material, in my opinion) present in your life. This was my first Thanksgiving away from home, and I definitely missed my family, yet I was thankful to have the opportunity to celebrate not only once, but twice with two special groups of friends.

My Thanksgiving holiday started Thursday evening, toting my weekend bag over to the 5eme arrd. to arrive at Molly and Yann's apartment for a Thanksgiving feast prepared by Edith and Molly. Everyone was gathered around their living room, sitting on the couch, floor, and even a mattress, drinking champagne and wine, enjoying the generous portions of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, home-made macaroni and cheese, and much more. It's definitely an American holiday, but here I was surrounded by a mix of friends from all over--France, America, Britain, Cuba, and Morocco. Unfortunately I only had an hour from the time I arrived until I needed to get up to the train station to catch an overnight train to Munich.

I walked into Gare de l'Est, overwhelmed with excitement to embark on a truly European journey. I was standing at the base of my platform when Karina, Abbey, and Abbey's boyfriend Brad walked up behind me. We bounced around, got chocolate for the ride, and boarded the train. As we put our bags into our sleeping car, and others were busy finding their bed or seat assignment, unfolding sheets and pulling out books and bottles of water, I couldn't help but feel like I was a part of something bigger. A mentality? A social ritual? Riding the train is so traditionally European, and all around me people were searching for empty cabins, speaking different languages, closed into tight quarters, into beds stacked 3-high. The four of us tried to stay up to talk or maybe play cards, but it was after midnight, so we climbed into our couchettes, turned on the reading lights and talked about Thanksgiving recipes until our Tylenol PM lulled us to sleep.

I woke up to see snow on the ground as the train sped through thick forests and across wide fields with scattered farms and homes tucked into the snowy hills. We arrived in Munich, had time for a coffee and German pretzel, and then boarded another train for Garmisch. This time I watched the landscape change for the entire hour and a half. I tried reading my Economist, but I couldn't keep my eyes in the magazine. The landscape was Wisconsin and Germany, covered with snow, with more falling the further we traveled. We arrived in Garmisch to a full snow storm, Abbey's dad picked us up (after a minor fender bender from sliding through an intersection), and we drove through the village of Garmisch to get to their house. I wish I could've video-taped the whole drive, as the trees hung heavy with snow, the chimney's were spouting smoke, people were shoveling sidewalks, and the road wound around snowy river banks. We drove past the Marshall Center, the European Center for Security Studies where Abbey's dad teaches a course in counter-terrorism, and he explained that the compound used to be a training facility for one of Hitler's Alpine divisions. During the war it was converted into a hospital for wounded German soldiers, and when the Americans took over, it was where they housed German POWs. Driving around the stone-fenced compound, covered in snow, it was amazing to come so close to a history that on one hand seems so distant yet only occurred 50-60 years ago. We arrived at the Pratt family's house, warmed ourselves, took photos outside, and welcomed the others as they arrived--Abbey's sisters, and Vicki, a friend of Karina and Abbey's from England. We then bundled up for a 30-minute night-time walk to a local restaurant. The walk was perhaps one of the highlights of the trip, as the snow had finally stopped but our path to the restaurant took us over wooden bridges, on narrow ledges between a forest and a river, between homes lit up inside, their porches and wooden decks heavy with fresh snow. We traversed a field, knocked the snow off of fence posts, looked up at the expansive sky, and shared bottles of beer during our course. At the restaurant we ate stroganoff, schnitzel, spaetzel, and wursts and discussed politics and family trips over large steins of weiss beer.

Saturday was the Thanksgiving feast. Karina was the head chef, having put together the menu the night before. Vicki and I helped her in the kitchen the whole day, together making the entire turkey, doing the gravy, potatoes, vegetables, and doing a ton of dishes. Other families started arriving as we were transferring the turkey to some hot coals outside and moving all other dishes into the oven. The meal was a fantastic menagerie of everybody's collective work, and the other people were fascinating to talk to. I got into a discussion with a man who teaches international law (and is one of 8 people in the world working on re-writing the manual on international law) about the pedagogical differences between American and European instructors. (Anybody who wants to know more...I'll be happy to engage...but I'll leave all of that off the blog!) We took a post-dinner walk, returned to five different dessert varieties, and drank a lot of wine. On Sunday we all put on the Pratt family's snow pants and boots and went to an open field to play a game of tackle football in the snow. That evening we packed up and had to go back to the train station. The snow was still heavy, and it was hard to leave the country behind. But when I awoke on Monday morning, 15 minutes before pulling into the Paris train station, I looked outside at the changed urban landscape. The French buildings and plethora of chimneys, red tile roofs, white facades with wooden shutters, wrought iron balcony railings. The announcements on the train were in French, instead of German as they'd been on the way to Munich, and I sent up a thankful prayer to be back in Paris.

Overall, my Thanksgiving prayers were abundant. I am thankful to have the opportunity to live in Paris, to be in Europe where I can easily experience many distinct cultures, to be surrounded by friends who can serve as family in my family's absence, and to know that I have a wonderful and loving family at home who supports and encourages me to take this time in my life to do exactly as I've always dreamed. I have friends at home whom I love and miss dearly but who also know me so well, understand, and support my need to be here. I have remained healthy and out of harm's way over this past year, I have strengthened my sense of self, and I have been financially able to take the necessary steps to do so. And while Thanksgiving is a great reminder of everything I have to be thankful for, I simply walk down a narrow street in Paris, cross through a street market, look up at the newly-strung Christmas lights, walk into the warm, buzzing cafe on a cold evening, or catch a glimpse of the North star through my window, and I fill up with a sense of thanks-giving.

Random List

25 Things I Love to do (in no particular order):

1. Ride horses
2. Cook meals
3. Take walks down neighborhood streets
4. Cuddle
5. Listen to Ani and Stevie (although not usually together)
6. Do yoga
7. Swiffer my floor
8. Journal
9. Sit by the water
10. Get dressed up
11. Drink coffee
12. Knit
13. Eat out; experiment with new restaurants
14. Kiss
15. Read
16. Tear open a fresh baguette
17. Go dancing
18. African dance, even if it's in my apartment
19. Go out for beer after work on a Friday
20. Play the piano
21. Sit in a park
22. Hear the cork pop on a fresh bottle of wine
23. Shop
24. Paint my fingernail and toenails
25. Hold hands

Joyful Girl

I'm now back in Paris after a jam-packed seven day return to Chicago for reasons of changing my visa status. While that didn't pan out as I'd hoped (and therefore, I will not be able to take this teaching assistant job I'd been offered and so badly wanted), I couldn't have asked for a better time. Jon was waiting for me at my arrival gate, Molly and Dad came to his apartment, Dad and I went out for a French dinner, ending the night at a neighborhood bar with Jon and Leah doing make-shift Bernie shots and political discussions of immigration policies. On Wednesday I had breakfast with Dad, we took a neighborhood walk, drove down to the University of Chicago, and I learned about his sales experiences for Sargento working on the south side of Chicago. He left before I could coax him into trying sushi for lunch. Then I had some time to stop for lunch and coffee on Damen, wondering in and out of shops before Leah returned home and we made sweet potato burritos for dinner. On Thursday I tried to nurse my cold, but then my pre-inscription from the Sorbonne arrived, whereas I ran around getting photocopies and filling out student visa paperwork, trying to finish everything before the consulate closed at 12:30. I didn't succeed, and then found out they were closed for Veteran's Day. But Leah and I went to our favorite wine bar that night where Gino talked us into some wonderful rose champaigne, and we ended up eating a light dinner there and not going any further. Friday was our "Chicago Day"...we took the train downtown, peeked behind the curtained Marshall Fields Christmas window displays, went to an exhibit at the Harold Washington Library on being a teen in Chicago, from 1900--2000. We entered a drawing for Wicked tickets, walked Michigan Ave., stopped for coffee, and then, after not getting chosen for tickets, made back-up plans to go out for sushi. In the "L" stop, a man drew my face in charcoal while a young guy rapped and carried on a dialogue set to background music in the station alive with Friday evening energy. After the best sushi we'd ever eaten, we met up with Jon and Molly in our neighborhood for drinks. On Saturday, Josh and Maureen arrived in Chicago, and we all went downtown to Millenium Park, but when it started to sprinkle, we headed straight for the Berghoff where we happily drank (small) steins of beer and devoured pretzels with mustard. Of course, it was no longer raining, but we decided to keep pub-hopping, Josh and I competing in the street for who could kick their leg higher, we ducked into Miller's Pub. We then moved on to Heaven on 7th, only after having appetizers and tequilla "shots" while waiting to get in for dinner. Jon tried some insanely intense hot sauce, I dropped my camera in my mashed potatos, we all were adorned with mardi gras beads, and we couldn't get enough of the sweet butter. We then moved on to Howl at the Moon, which was just a bit too much of a scene for all of us--too many soon-to-be-brides getting lap-dance shots and waving feather boas on stage to "baby got back." So we left with breakfast plans trumping the late night we'd anticipated. Sunday breakfast was reduced to Josh, Maureen and I, after the rest felt less than 100%...but it was so necessary to finally really catch up with Josh. Sunday afternoon Leah and I relaxed with pedicures and a movie, and then Mom and Paul arrived to pick us up for dinner, where we enjoyed a several-hours-long Italian dinner which was more flavorful and gourmet (without being pretentious) than any Italian I've ever eaten. Monday morning I followed Leah to her school to see where she works, then I drove straight to the consulate where I sat for over 3 hours...only to walk away with the visitor's visa that I could've had in 1 hour. Mom, Paul, and I took our time wandering through Trader Joes and Whole Foods, and then we went out for lunch (at 3:00). That night, Leah and I made her famous lasagna, and after numerous mishaps, laughed nonstop over cookies and tea. Tuesday morning, I ate breakfast with Leah and her roommate Stacia, said goodbye regretfully, and then packed, had tea with my friend Rocky, made a last-minute run to Walgreens, and made it back to Leah's just in time for my brother to pick me up for the airport. Traffic was horrendous, and we decided the "L" would be faster, so Jon made a harrowing move from the far left lane across 6 lanes of moving traffic to drop me off at the train. Really, I hardly stopped. But it was amazing. And I can't even be sad about the visa (okay, I can be a little sad...) because my trip home was so much more fantastic than I even anticipated. And I know it will be months before I see my family and Leah again. If I see them before the middle of July, it will be because they make a trip to Paris. But the time we spent together will hold me over for a little bit. I'm guessing I'll get homesick around the holidays, and again this spring, but I'm also happy to be back here in Paris. I've been almost as on-the-go since I've been back...but when I get older, my body will slow down despite my best efforts to keep it going. So right now, I might as well keep on moving.

Common Ground

Sitting in my comfortable studio apartment, the rioting going on outside of Paris might as well be going on in another country. I see the photos--like this one here--and it just doesn't reflect anything I've experienced here. But I know people who live (or used to live) in the cities north of Paris. And I know that the RER B running out to Charles De Gaulle has been on suspended service because it passes through some of those areas. The police don't know what to do, the Interior Minister just keeps referring to the rioters as "scum," and Chirac's calls for peace have fallen on deaf ears. And all of it just proves that you can't hold people down for long before they explode.

And on a different note, but related in the grand scheme, I got my hair cut yesterday by a man whom, I learned, arrived in France from Vietnam. Still a child, he came here 26 years ago as a political refugee as a result of the war. I couldn't bare to ask, but I'm certain it was because his parents were killed. A war, a quarter of a century ago, of which neither he nor I had anything to do with, but here we were speaking French to each other in Paris. Not our native language, not our original home. Transplants, but for extremely different reasons.

As I walked away from the salon, thinking about the inter-connectivity of the world, I realized how incredibly disheartening "power" is. Those who have systemically marginalized the immigrant population here in France are not the same ones on the streets trying to calm the riots. Those who made the decisions to go to war in Vietnam weren't the ones who fought. They weren't the ones who lost their families. They didn't get transplanted as children to a foreign land. They are the ones--whether here or elsewhere, whether now or yesterday or tomorrow--who call the shots but avoid the bullets. Yet when you step away from the politics and power, reduce the world to its least common denominators, we are all individuals who have to interact, who find similarities and differences, who can connect and have conversations, who can come from different worlds and still find common ground.

Happier than the Morning Sun

Yes, I took a few steps back, but I'm ahead again. Today was productive, and I know so because I just got my ceiling banged on. So that means I'm happy...and excited...and for good reason. Stevie Wonder is playing, Karina and I are camped out on my floor cushions (I'm helping her create her own blog)...No Karina, this isn't your cameo. But yes, Stevie is singing, we are eating late-night pita, wine in hand (getting banged again!)...and I am ALL set to get my student visa. I found a friendly woman at the Sorbonne (after visit #3) who has already mailed out my necessary paperwork, and I am being asked for my CV and letter of motivation for this teaching assistant position. People are recognizing me on my street, and I'm on a first-name basis with the younger guy who works in the cafe below my building. I got extra chocoates at my coffee shop, put on a lot of walking miles in the sun, and made a delicious dinner. And I couldn't be more psyched that my ticket is booked to go home. I can't wait to see my family and Leah...and of course I'll handle this visa situation...and tonight we discovered a totally hip bar just 3 doors down, got invited to a short-film viewing in December, and they are planting poppies in the Jardin du Luxembourg. My day was beautiful. And tomorrow is Friday...which probably means I'll end up at the cafe, enjoying friends and a few glasses of wine.

Leah, I can't wait to dance to "As" in your living room, play our music loudly, yell in the street and drink coffee until we can't sit still any more (and then we'll dance, right?). Jon and Josh, I call drawing last. No, I promise not to fall asleep.

The Conditioning Effect

" I remember the first time I saw someone
lying on the cold street
I thought, I can't just walk past here
this can't just be true
but I learned by example
to just keep moving my feet
It's amazing the things that we all learn to do."
--Ani DiFranco


It rained all day. I was wrapped up in trips to the Sorbonne, getting advice on my CV, making photocopies, filling out forms... and twice I walked past the same homeless man outside the grand Sorbonne building, scrubbed white, flags flying, guards at each door. He sat on a piece of cardboard, his dirty hands with long fingernails held a novel. He didn't look up, just had a small tin cup in front of him and a cardboard sign on which he'd simply written "S.V.P." (short for "s'il vous plait"--please). Both times I glanced into his cup, only to see the smallest copper coins--the 1 and 2 centieme pieces. But I was on a mission. I had work to accomplish. I had places to go. It wasn't until I returned to my neighborhood after, not surprisingly, somewhat fruitless efforts, that I passed another homeless man. This time the man spoke to me, asking for 40 centieme. I shook my head and approached the intersection. The rain was coming down and the streetlights reflected on the wet pavement. I glanced down at myself. Leather jacket. Nice boots. Clean jeans and a warm sweater. I imagined a character sketch of myself, and I realized that I'd much rather be that girl who always gives spare change to the homeless than the girl who usually walks past.

It's all Part of the Process

I will never stop learning. Not in the sense that I'll forever be a student of wonder and curiosity (which is also true, but not what I'm talking about), but that I think I have the right things figured out only to discover that I was wrong. So I found out yesterday that there are openings in a English Teaching Assistantship program, a program I researched this summer but was too late to apply for. It turns out that after the program begins, people leave and spots are unfilled, and then they do a second round of hiring, but they cannot provide the necessary visas--you must already have your paperwork squared away. And in order to do this, I would need a student visa. So I'm working on three parallel sets of requirements: 1) Figuring out how to become a full-time student without spending more money than I'd be making; 2) Obtaining a student visa; 3) Applying for this program. Now I'm running around trying to obtain and square away a copy of my diploma (which is framed and burried in my storage unit), pre-registration to a school (which includes its own long list of requirements), a CV and letter of motivation (in French and English), proof of residency, a flight home in the next week... Oh, and they're hiring now. So I might have a 2-week window to have this all finished.

And yesterday I was reminded of an intersting aspect of French culture. The fact that you can't ever do things as simply or quickly as you'd expect. I paid a personal visit to the director of this program to get more information. But she was busy (this is after a train ride out to the 20th arrd.), so I just received her name and phone number and instructions to call her Wednesday. Then it turns out that I might have been barking up the wrong tree because the openings might be in a city just outside of Paris--which means I went to the wrong office. Even renting a movie here is an ordeal. They have these sleek little computer vending machines all over the city. You put in your card, select your movie, and it comes out a slot. You get the movies for 6 hours, 12 hours, or 24 hours. But to even qualify for a movie card, you must have a French bank account, official photo ID, and official mail with your name and address. Since my landlord collects the bills and I pay in a lump sum, I have nothing to provide other than friendly letters. No good. So Karina and I are movie buddies, since she has this documentation. But we went back and forth to this movie office 3 times last night because the 4 pieces of photo ID she had with her were not sufficient.

It's amazing because I can walk out my front door and purchase all the fresh produce, bread, cheese, meat, flowers, etc. that I want. But I can't rent a movie. And now thinking about becoming a full-time language student, applying for a different visa, potentially getting a job... and it all has my mind spinning. I'm jazzed about the possibility but dreading what I know will be one mis-guided step after another. I know I'll do 10 things for every 1 productive step. But I can't complain (and I'm not). I'm in Paris...and I'm going to make this work.

A Daily Reflection

"Be more aware of self in relation to your environment as opposed to the conditioning which compells one to be aware of the self as consumed by their environment."

Cafe Connections

Edith's Birthday!

The top photos are from dinner at "Asian." The big photo is from the continuation of Edith's birthday at the Cafe. So people at home can put names with faces...(on the big photo, going left to right): Stephanie, Jen (she's kinda tucked behind Stephanie), Moema, Catherine, Melanie, Marie, me, Molly, and Edith.

Let me explain everyone: Stephanie, Moema, and Catherine went to school together in Great Britain. Catherine has been in Paris now for 4 years or more, Moema for 3 1/2, Stephanie for 3. Stephanie is Sly's girlfriend, one of the guys who works here at the cafe. Jen and Edith met at the cafe on one of Edith's first nights in Paris. One of the guys told Jen to go talk to Edith because she was also an American and she was all by herself. Apparently, Edith had her tour book out, Jen went over to talk to her (Edith thought Jen was French)...and Jen offered to give Edith French lessons. They studied at the cafe and quickly became friends. Melanie and Marie are the "little sisters" at the cafe. All the guys who work at the cafe have known these girls since they were kids (they're now 22 or 23), and Melanie now works at the cafe sometimes (she's the only female who's allowed to work there). Molly was introduced to the cafe on a trip to Paris about 2 years ago. She shared a cab with a guy from the airport who then invited her to dinner with his friends. They ended up at the cafe. Yonn, Molly's now husband, sat across from her at dinner and was awe-strucken. They just got married in Morocco at the end of September. And Edith...She arrived in Paris over 2 years ago for an internship. She didn't know anyone and ended up at the cafe by herself, and David, also a bartender there, told her to come back on Friday night when there's typically a larger "international" crowd. She had nothing else to do...so she returned, and that's when she met Jen. That same night, she met Victor, another bartender at the cafe. Not long after, they started seeing each other and have been together ever since. And Edith is mainly responsible for my tie-in to this entire entourage. I had met David, Victor, Sly, and Danny just by going into the cafe a few times by myself and later just by saying hi on the street because I lived around the corner this summer. Then when Leah was visiting, we went in more often and solidified our friendship with the guys who worked there. But I kept hearing about all of their girlfriends, yet I had never met any of them. One night after closing, Leah and I were sitting at the bar and Edith came over and sat down on the stool next to me saying, "I heard your accent, are you American too?" When I said yes, she gave a dynamic Edith response with a huge smile, "Yeay! Other American girls!" We ended up talking for quite a while, exchanged phone numbers, and we've been friends ever since. I can't imagine how different Paris would be had I never met Edith that night. And in the meantime, I've met everybody else and have begun forming some valuable friendships.

Mail Matters

It's a Saturday full of unexpected pleasant surprises. I checked my mail on the way out at 11:00 to find three promising envelopes. I walked to my favorite cafe on the corner where you can order a basket of bread (although I usually stick to the baguette) and each communal table has an assortment of spreads and jams on it for your bread-eating enjoyment. Really, these "spreads" include a chocolate spread, a nutella-type spread, praline spread, almond butter, fig jam, orange marmalade, and of course good old-fashioned butter and honey. But that's beyond the point.... I happily ordered and set about going through my mail. First I opened a small envelope from my cousin Leah. It was a photo of my Grandma Gentine, looking fantastically vibrant, and a little note telling me to keep enjoying Paris. Next, I opened a padded envelope from my dad to find a color print-out photo and letter on top of two pieces of cardboard. I removed the cardboard to find about 8 beautiful Wisconsin fall leaves carefully pressed between sheets of wax paper. Since I was at a table outside, I held each one up into the sunlight to fully appreciate their color. The waiter came out with my baguette and coffee and marveled at my "collection de feuille," spread out on the table. I will put them up in my apartment to remind me of home. Thanks, Dad. And then I opened the last one--a letter from Obadyah. It also included a photo from his wedding--he and Zuri, his mom, and his brother. They were standing together in the visiting cell, he in his prison khakis. They let him wear the khakis instead of the usual bright red X-row one-piece uniform. His letter was, as always, inspiring, insightful, understanding, and honest. It felt like Christmas morning, since it's those little personal and extremely thoughtful offerings that matter the most.

After my leisurely breakfast basking in happiness and reflection (it took me an hour to eat my baguette and drink my cafe), I stopped home to drop off the French books which I had packed and planned to review over breakfast (until I found mail!). I saw that the tailor shop next to my front door was open, two Middle Eastern men standing over a suit coat full of stick pins. I stopped in and asked if they were able to do alterations to leather ("cuile", I learned). They asked to see it, so I ran up to my apartment and brought it back down. I put it on and tried to joke in French that it's walking so much in Paris that has the coat too big for me now. (Really, I think I just bought my clothes bigger a few years ago!) Luckily, they understood me, and next thing I knew, I too had pins sticking out all over from my sides and shoulders. They set a price which I thought was reasonable, and we set a date for me to pick it up. I couldn't believe my luck, to find a capable tailor right outside my door. Literally. I then went on a quest to purchase a beautiful orchid for my friend Edith. (Today is her birthday.) The streets are packed, because it's Saturday, but that also means that street performers are out on all the corners and people are stopping to admire their talent (I took the photo in Les Halles on my way home). Now I'm home and trying to figure out what's next. I might just take my book and go sit someplace outside. The sun is shining and I have a few hours before I need to start getting ready for tonight. Because it's Edith's birthday, about 10 of us girls are going out for dinner. After dinner we're all going to the cafe where the guys and any other friends will gather. After the cafe closes, we're all going out dancing. I even bought a skirt to wear.

Pleasant Surprises

This morning I arrived at phonetics class, obligingly 15 minutes early, feeling not one bit together. Perhaps it was only getting four hours of sleep, perhaps it was from drinking too much wine (and consequently smoking several cigarettes...and several for me is several too many), or perhaps it was because my hair was on day three of not being washed. I walked slower than normal, ate a vionnoise as well as a plum on my way, chugged down a bottle of water, and slightly dreaded the idea of making only the slightest sound distinction noises for the following 75 minutes. My professor, who has only had one session with me, greeted me with a huge smile and a hug. And I felt instantly better. I wanted to do well. I wanted my mouth to move correctly in forming the difference between "e" ouvert and the "e" ferme, the "a" anterieur and the "a" posterieur. And just when I thought my palette had become accustomed to the different movements and no longer felt sore, I found my cheeks aching and the top of my mouth stretching in new ways. Again. Who knew that phonetics would be such a workout!?

My class requires one textbook, which incidentally was written by a woman who worked at the Alliance. The bookstore (it's actually the cafeteria, but that's where they also sell the texts) didn't have the accompanying cassette, however, and the man wrote a woman's phone number on a small slip of paper saying I had to call her in order to get the cassettes. As if it wasn't enough that I have to use cassettes to do my homework (who even has cassette players anymore?), I then had to call a woman who may or may not speak English to somehow get them. So, I did nothing. Which means that today, my "tres gentille" professor called this woman for me (although then handed the phone over to me, so I learned my lesson right there). I received directions to this woman's apartment, and after class I set off to find her. When she answered the door, she had her gray hair up in a towel but was formally dressed, and she stood about 4'10". She invited me in and asked me to sit, and we proceeded to talk for the next 3o minutes or so. She's probably 75 years old, no longer works at the Alliance, but she wanted to know all about my family, my stay in Paris, my reasons for learning French..and even what I found most difficult about phonetics (that was nearly impossible for me to articulate in French!). She finally sold me the tapes, took my name and phone number, and we said our formal good-byes. As I walked downstairs and out of the courtyard I couldn't help but marvel at this system. I think she keeps the cassettes on purpose so that she has regular young visitors. Yet I loved that I had that moment, and I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, difficult as it was at times. A friend suggested I call her again and ask if I can join her for tea to practice my language. Afterall, she can certainly help me on my pronunciation!

African Drums

I'm listening to Oliver Mtkudzi, the Zimbabwean legend, because I'm completely jazzed up on African music and drumming right now after my afternoon in a practice studio with four Cameroonian musicians. They're preparing for a month-long trip through Cameroon where they'll play their music in different villages, the grand-master plan being orchestrated by an American who is creating his first documentary of their journies. I ended up spending my day there (after phonetics class this morning where I had to look at my mouth formations in the mirror for over an hour!) because my new friend, Jen, is friends with the documentary director, Eric. She and I just listened, took photos, and even danced for a quick minute while Eric filmed and played around with lighting and sound.

My apartment feels completely at home and I couldn't be more happy with this neighborhood. Just last night, four of us ended up at a funky cafe playing some electric guitar music with light-up globes along the wall and maps pinned up everywhere. And it was a quick 2 minutes away from my front door; we finished the night at an Italian restaurant 1 minute from my door. But my walls are paper-thin and the person on the other side of my wall bangs nearly every other day when apparently my music is too loud or I'm on the phone with Leah. There's also some horrendous screaming noise coming from the first floor...I can't honestly figure out if it's a baby or some kind of rodent pet being caged up against its will. It's almost too deathly of a scream to belong to a human. Okay...but other than that...Paris life continues to thrill me. I strolled through the Jardin du Luxembourg today on my way from class to the metro line I wanted. The trees are changing colors, leaves falling, the air smells like fall, and people are wearing blazers and jackets, but it's not terribly cold and there's no biting wind. At night it feels like the lights of this city snuggle us into a museum-like atmosphere where you look up at the sky or an illuminated tree or building, and it looks almost too perfect to be real.

Walking distance to the Louvre

I can see the north star from my window. When I rolled in at 4:00 and 4:30 am each night this weekend, I could see about 10 stars from my window. I pulled the doors open and leaned on the railing to stretch my torso into the cool, soft fading night air. Right now my incense is burning, Citizen Cope is playing on my stereo, my delicates are spinning perhaps a bit too quickly in my washing machine, and I'm looking forward to sleeping on my soft, new brown pillowcases. I haven't been sleeping well, so I may have to resort to the Tylenol PM tonight. But I think I'm just too damned excited to go to sleep.
Today I met Karina for lunch. We sat in the sunlight on the crowded rue and ate fresh salads. Later, I walked into the Louvre courtyard, fountain in the middle, and crossed through the enormous square, though the tall gate to emerge in front of the famous glass pyramids. Apparently, if you pass through the courtyard at night, it's lit up and you can see the DaVinci's "Venus" in an upper window. I met Karina and Abbey for the Girodet exhibit. I knew nothing about him, but the exhibit was fascinating (it will be in Chicago from Feb.--April). I was drawn to a floor-to-ceiling painting called "Un scene de deluge" which he described not as "the" Noah's "deluge" (usually depicted with a flood) but of "a" deluge where the destructive forces of nature take man's life. The painting was of a man in a huge flowing cape pulling another man away from his woman and two children. The woman's arm was extended, the man trying desperately to hold on to it. Girodet gave an example of the disaster in Switzerland (I don't know which disaster it was at that time), but it reminded me of all the natural disasters waging death upon thousands of people within the past few months. And the most stunning painting, in my opinion, was a huge depiction of a priest pulling the torso of a woman wrapped in a white sheet with a cross around her neck and a crosss tucked into the top of her cloth. Her legs are being embraced by a "savage" man (you can see him in the picture here). Her name is Atala, a Christian, and he is a savage, yet they are in love. Because she took the Christian vow of chastity, yet she is in love with this man, she committs suicide. This neither allows her into heaven nor allows her to be with the man she loves. She has a content look on her face, and the man seems also at peace, while only the priest is scowling. Girodet's work is fascinating, and perhaps most intriuging is its symbolic relevance to many of the same topics and issues today...wow, and I'm barely brushing the surface.
It's going to be sunny and in the 60's again tomorrow. I think I'll take my book and my French to Les Halles and sit on the grass and just breath in the smell of the leaves which are starting to fall. Fall might be my favorite time in Paris.

Gentober Fest!

Fifteen cousins, twenty-two great grandchildren...most within a 2-hour driving radius. That's a lot of Gentines, and good reason to celebrate in the best way a cheese family can--Gentober Fest. This year's second annual Gentober Fest was at Kristin and Greg's house, fitting as it used to be our grandparents' place and the house that all of our parents grew up in. Cheese, sausage, beer, the infamous cheesy potato dish, brats, burgers, 7-layer bars, s'mores, a decent amout of beer....and a round of Jagger shots.Princess shows and dress-up clothes, a bon fire and swapping stories while eating sticky marshmellows off of perfect roasting sticks. Next year, Tony, we're bringing back the Bernie. And you might have to be responsible for its appearance.
Enjoy the photos! (Wish I had more!)

43 rue St. Sauveur

I'm finally able to upload photos. As it turns out, I was using somebody else's wireless network and I couldn't get enough power. SO...this is my apartment. Actually, these photos are already outdated as I frantically rearranged everything two nights ago in an attempt to make it more "me." And today I bought some African mud-clothe pillow covers and different bedding (the bright blue and red is too overstimulating when I'm trying to sleep! Really...!). But this give you a good idea of my abode for the next 10 months. On my next update, I'll provide the view from my big windows!

Pedestrian Encounters

I don't know why it's so much easier to meet people here in Paris, but it is. Creating a community is essential to one's sense of belonging, and until that happens, I think it's natural to constantly look towards that next place that will provide all the aspects that the current place lacks. People gravitate to small towns because the neighbor's wave as they pass in the street, people stop to chat with you about your lawn, and your picture gets printed in the paper when you star in the musical or bake the best cream puff at the county fair.
But then you take a city as big as Paris, and somehow, the people here shrink it downto make it feel like home. Of all the big cities in the world, this feels the smallest to me. And despite being here only four days now, I've already re-established most of the connections I had when I left, and I've also made new ones. Take today. I walked to Anne Caroline's office to chat with her and pick up the odds and ends she's been holding for me while I went home. On my walk back, I kept following this guy who, of course, stopped at my door and punched in the door code. I thanked him and exchanged greetings in French, and he held the next gate open for me. Since I was carrying two heavy bags, I opted for the lift, while he advanced up the stairs. At the top, we ran into each other again, but it wasn't ackward. We spoke a few more words in French, and then he asked me if I spoke English. Over conversation in the hallway where the light kept going off and had to be turned back on by hitting the glowing button (for only another 3 minutes or so of light), we found out we were both American. After we'd both retired to our apartments, I had an ethernet cord question for him. So I knocked on his door...and after an hour and a half and a cup of green tea, I had a new friend and we were plotting a week-day trip to Ikea.
Another thirty minutes later, I met Karina on the corner between her street and mine (we're on the same street with the main pedestrian street between us). We wandered over to a restaurant food sampling, but after a camera man put a spotlight on us over a platter of sausages that were still red in the middle, we decided to just make dinner at her place. Karina, her roommate Abbey, and I then drank wine and ate dinner over intense relationship conversations and laughter about good kissers. At 11:30 I hit the street, carrying Karina's air mattress and pump (because my friend Matty from ND who now works in Germany will be visiting me this weekend). I wasn't more than 10 steps from her front door when two guys asked me if I wanted help carrying my load. I responded that it wasn't too heavy and that I didn't live too far (those are statements I can make confidently in French!). We then switched to English for the remainder of our walk; as it turns out they lived in Montreal and now both live on my street. We exchanged names and "Enchantes" (just for you, Leah)...and I know if I see them on the street again, it would be strange not to engage in conversation.
Maybe it's my accent, maybe it's because I look foreign that people want to talk to me...but I will challenge anyone who wants to talk about French rudeness. The French have been extremely warm, the foreigners here also willing to welcome me into their community. All I know is that I belong. And I know this may not be "home" forever, but in such a short time, it's done one hell of a job feeling as great as any other home I've ever known.

Finding my Feet

My tall window is cracked open in the hopes that some distinctly Parisian sound floats into my apartment. Maybe a two-toned siren or Edith Piaf coming from an old phonograph. But right now I just hear a person whistling and the dishes clanking in the tiny restaurant that occupies the lower level of this building. A man and presumably his son just walked through the courtyard below, and just the rhythm of their French conversation makes this feel all the more real. I'm here. I've arrived, made 43 rue St. Sauveur my home, and even made a mixte sandwhich for dinner. Not much of a dinner--two slices of ham and two slices of emental on a baguette--but the bread was fresh and tomorrow I'll shop at the fresh produce markets. I have to admit that I was intimidated when I stepped out of my door this evening. I haven't spoken English yet, but I haven't spoken much period. I couldn't chat with the pharmicist over my lotion purchase, nor understand the grocery clerk's explanation of why the pregnant woman got to step in front of the line to buy her toothpaste (though I smiled, nodded and said "c'est vrai" in an attempt to fake understanding). I am without the familiar places and people and sounds and lights of my neighborhood from this summer, but I have to remember that I felt an even greater sense of displacement back in May. Yet I made it my own. And I'll do the same this time. Tomorrow morning when I take my cafe, I know I'll smile, take a deep breath, and pinch myself.

Both Hands

The month of September continues to improve as my approaching trip to Paris draws more near. Door County, dancing in the isle at the U2 concert, dinner parties, Citizen Cope, walks through the neighborhood, champagne and dancing, new restaurants and new connections vibing with old, shopping and art festivals. And I can't help but just feel completely overwhelmed and blessed to have the community of friends and family that I do.
Yesterday I visited Obadyah on death row, and at the table behind us sat a man scheduled to be executed next week. He has waived his appeals and is now tying up his loose ends, making final connections with his family and friends...and I can't comprehend the gravity of knowing you're going to be killed in less than a week. He had a steady stream of visitors during the five hours that I was there, but there were no tears. I didn't know that man, but just sitting in the same room with him evoked a whole range of emotions, from rage and sadness to confusion and even pity. He gave Obadyah and I each a can of coke, and after I left, I realized that I never thanked him again. I also realized that I never said "I love you" to Obadyah, and even though I'm not saying "good-bye" in the way that the man behind me was, I felt disappointed in my failure to express my genuine love for him.
As I pack my days and nights with plans to see everybody important to me, I feel like the creator has offered the world to me with both hands. And I am more than happy to take this world into my hands, whether I'm dancing or running or sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Getting Started

I'm a complete rookie; only a matter of weeks ago did my friend Jenna even define what a "blog" was for me. But since then I've become mildly obsessed and completely convinced that this will be the best way for me to share my upcoming stay in Paris with my family and friends. Let me start by explaining my title--"Nomad." It was a nickname that my friend Obadyah gave me over six years ago. I guess it was because I was in Zimbabwe at the time and doing just a little travelling in Africa between classes. Since then, however, his nickname (almost prophetic, I guess) has been nothing short of accurate. I've been all over the place, never in one location for too long...so as I searched for a title, which gave me a bit of that pressure similar to needing really exciting New Year's Eve plans, I realized that Nomad was the perfect name for the purpose of my blog. Blog. I can't believe I have one. Welcome.