Nomad

Another view on the Middle East

2011-02-09T17:42:00.002+01:00

There is so much attention on the Middle East at the moment, with the now 3-week stand-off against Mubarak, with the Jordanian king releasing his entire government and appointing new people, with stirring protests in Yemen, and the Tunisians cheering that their chased-out leader is now being brought up on "crimes against Tunisia."

It is true, the amassed fortunes (in billions) of Mubarak and his family are despicable in a country where the vast majority of Egyptians live on less than $5 a day. It is also true that Ben Ali and his family in Tunisia siphoned massive amounts of their country's wealth into their own personal bank accounts. This is what I hear from my teachers who are Egyptian and Tunisian. This is confirmed in the news.

Here's what I also hear in my school (no sweeping generalizations here...just the women who work in my school!). Some Egyptian women are very afraid of swift change because the women and children are most vulnerable. While the men are all out in the streets being political, the women and children are at home with no protection. Looters have entered their homes knowing that they could easily take what's inside. A vacuum of power would be scary. The Muslim Brotherhood is not "equal" to Al Quaida, as it's been mentioned by some media. The Tunisians are thrilled that Ben Ali is gone. The Syrians are happy that there are no protests in Syria. They are happy with life there as it is right now. The Palestinians are used to all of this.

And the Emiraties. They remain eternally and deeply thankful and proud of their rulers. Last year when I was getting to know the women I work with, I did a "speaking assessment" in which I asked the question, "Describe somebody you admire." I had several women speak about Sheik Zayed. Their father, they call him. The father of their people. (Talking about him actually brought on tears for two women.) Not their nation, but their people. He gave, he shared, he had a revolutionary vision, he put his people first, he gave citizenship to orphans from other Muslim countries, he made sure people had homes if they chose to move out of the desert to the city. It's now his son who rules the UAE, after an older son tried but was decided to not be cut out for the job. The other sheiks of other Emirates are noteworthy and well-loved. The UAE has activated a policy of "Emiratization" in which more and more Emiraties are to be educated, trained, and appointed jobs within their own country. They've been going out to England or the USA for university education; they bring their ideas back to the UAE, where they are rewarded and cared for in appreciation for their contributions. Now there are universities beefing up their facilities here so that their own people can get a good education at home.

It's easier, I'm sure, for people to be happy with their sheiks here. It's a wealthy country with a lot to share. It's also a place where, yes, protests are illegal. You cannot protest against the government; you cannot choose to be a different religion if you were born here. You must abide by the laws of Islam if you are Muslim; if you are not, you are governed by a different set of rules--the rules that are dictated by your religion so long as you don't disturb others from practicing Islam. Yes, women can drive, and many do. Yes, they can go out unaccompanied, though many do not. Yes, they are deeply religious, deeply caring, extremely generous, very open-minded, and tolerant without needing to alter their own beliefs.

The other night I came home from yoga and stopped at a nearby bakery for bread. I ran in to get my bread, waited for some time due to the chaotic disorganization of the ladies working behind the counter, joked with an Emirati man who was waiting forever to get a cake for his sister's birthday, eventually got my bread, and went out to find that my car wouldn't start. After a few failed phone calls to colleagues (none of whom had jumper cables), I decided I'd just ask the next man who walked out of the bakery. Sure enough, the first man said he'd help me. He lifted the hood of my car, had a look, had me try to start the car one more time, and then went to his trunk and pulled out a battery. Completely new. Tried to start the car by touching his full battery against my dead one. But it sparked and gave him a little shock. So he went back to his car and got a wrench and proceeded to dislodge my battery from its casing. He put his battery in my car, asked me to start it, and sure enough, it worked. He then told me to just keep his battery. I protested and offered to give him some money at the very least, which he refused. He simply said he was happy he could help, and told me his name was Mohammed.

Yesterday I did an English lesson with the principal. After discussing verbs and expressions related to Heads of Departments, she started talking about Arabic grammar, which lead her into a discussion about Islam. She knows the Holy Quran very well. She didn't want to stop talking about all of the ways that the Quran helps Muslims live their lives. And then she asked if I've read books about Islam. I told her that I have, although I've probably read more about Islam from a political and social perspective, not a religious one. She said that it's such a beautiful, peaceful, loving, and generous religion, and that the people who use the name of Islam to carry out hateful and deadly acts are not really Muslim. They don't understand, she said.

This sentiment is something I hear over and over. The Muslims I know here are not ashamed but sad about the way that Islam is portrayed and understood in the West. And they are right to be sad. They would also be right to be extremely frustrated. In light of the upheaval and the renewed spotlight on the Middle East, there is also renewed criticism of Islam (in broad, sweeping generalizations, but nonetheless, it's being put out there). When I read about people who actually write/say things in response to this change--which is quite positive for the people!--like "Islam kills and it always has," or "Why is Islam allowed in the US?" or "We must fear Islam," I am outraged. Living in a Muslim country has been an eye-opening experience that has easily challenged any preconceived notion I may have come here with. This has been a deeply personal experience of getting to know Arab and African Muslim women who could not imagine their lives without Islam. They tell me that the notion of "converting" religions is unthinkable; being Muslim is a part of their everyday lives. And they are some of the warmest, most generous, curious, genuinely welcoming people I've ever met. I wish their perspectives and profiles would be included in the reports on "life in the Middle East" so that more people OUTSIDE this region could gain a wider picture of what it means to be Muslim, Arab and/or Middle Eastern.

Random stuff from the week

2010-10-30T15:10:00.003+02:00

I remember now one of the reasons I stopped blogging. There are so many events here that can't be talked about. Not on an open forum, anyhow. Too many identities that should never be written about. Like how we have to take photos here in the school: the backs of heads or hands. No faces. And so the most interesting and intimate information about what I learn about from the various perspectives of the various Arabic women I work with are, for the most part, all off limits to the "public eye."

But here is a little bit about what happened this week. Girls (students) have been coming to my room to look through the newspaper and magazine library that I have. They're collecting information about healthy lifestyles for their English/ICT project. I've had several conversations with many of them. Three in particular are interested in what an "American perspective" on Arab people is "really" like. They asked if I thought everybody was a terrorist. I said, "absolutely not." Then they asked if I knew any Arab people in the States. Well, no, I didn't. How was that possible? I'm not sure.

I get bottled water delivered to the house. Every Tuesday the water truck comes, and if I have bottles to exchange, I put them outside with the coupons attached. This week I needed another coupon book. So I put my 3 bottles outside and attached an envelope to it, which contained 100 dirhams and a request for another booklet. It sat outside on the stoop for 10 hours, and when I got home later that night, I found full bottles, but no coupon book. I thought it was strange, and I decided to let it be for a day or two. If I had no word, I'd call the company and tell them that the delivery people had taken my money but not given me the coupons. But the very next day when I got home from work, sure enough, there was the water guy waiting for me. He apologized profusely about forgetting my coupons. I knew he hadn't taken the money. People here are drive by such a respect for honesty when it comes to stealing. They just don't take what doesn't belong to them.

I went to my horseback riding lesson on Monday. Junior came with me since he was home. It's the most peaceful, beautiful environment, in my opinion, to be outside after the sun has set, in a place filled with horses and people who love them. The past few weeks I've been on a crazy horse. Literally, she's crazy. A former racehorse that has thrown everybody off. When I got there, our instructor wanted to see what the guy in my class could do with her. I had no problem with it, even though I felt like I was making some progress with her. I got a "calmer" horse. And on my second time asking for a canter, I got bucked off. Yep, had to do an emergency dismount when I found myself on her neck ahead of the saddle! She even broke the fence (top rail!) in her kick that threw me off. Of course I got back on. And then learned that the guy on my horse from last week also got thrown off before I got to the arena. By the end of it, I decided against jumping and just took it easy. I said I was too old (the guy and girl I ride with are both 17/18). Really, I was just fed up. But I'll get that same horse again next week, and I'll hope it's better! And the next night I enjoyed a civilized and less physical game of mahjong.

I saw a movie with my friend Sonya last Saturday. "The Furious Force of Rhymes" It's a documentary about the global hip-hop movement and the way different people have used it to find their voice and express their concerns (racism, classism, neo-colonialism, the fall of communism, terrorism/being seen as terrorists). It was fabulous. It played on the last day of the Abu Dhabi Film Festival.

And the Ferari Theme Park opened 3 days ago. It has, of course, the world's fastest roller coaster. The Formula 1 race is next weekend, so the city is full of activity. There are nightly movies outside on the beach, 2 concerts every night (also on the beach), art exhibits,...and of course, all the stuff going on at Yas Island, the island with the theme park and race track.

And last but not least, Junior and I went in search of a pumpkin yesterday. It looked more like a butternut squash, but we found some at the Fruit and Vegetable market. We spent 3 dollars on it, and Junior did all of the carving. Per usual, I toasted the seeds. And per usual, I was the only one who ate them!

For a moment

2010-10-22T09:34:00.002+02:00

The strangest things touch us sometimes in the most unexpected ways. And then we find ourselves doing something with passion or excitement or sadness or reflection--and it was never even on the radar when we woke up and thought about our day.

I woke up this morning with the intention to research what it will take to get my teaching certification for French. I pulled out all my transcripts last night and found myself paging through the binder that has contained my life's most important documents since I've lived outside of the USA. For five and a half years now, that blue binder (American size, which the A4 documents from every other part of the world stick out of the top of, but I never bothered to buy a larger binder) has contained my passport, my birth certificate (yes, original), my diplomas (yes, originals), my university transcripts (now from 6 different schools), my carte de séjours, my residence permits, my work visas, my health insurance documents, my letters of recommendation, my French language exam certificates, copies of all credit cards, drivers' licenses, library cards, student IDs, apartment lease agreements, utility bills (needed for every transaction in France), police background checks, and even my fingerprints and contact lense perscriptions. It's all there. I felt emotional and strange paging through those documents last night, and so I left them to this morning. Because, as I prepare for another step forward, I have to reorganize all of the above, so that I can fit them into a nice picture that sums up my "experience" abroad, over the past (nearly) 6 years.

But then I read an op-ed piece in the New York Times. A woman who wrote about being 50-something and having long hair. And how she's tired of people finding myriad reasons to criticize her for her decision NOT to cut her hair, as most middle-aged American women do. And she said that in Europe the same wouldn't be true. And she said that maybe she should move to Paris. Which, of course, got me thinking of Paris. Middle-aged women with long hair and Paris got me thinking about Joni Mitchell. And her song, "California." About leaving Paris, where it's "old and gray and settled in its ways" and going home to California. And when I got to the end of the opinion piece, I saw that this woman writer has a blog, called SlowLoveLife.com (yes, check it out), which I went to. Instead of removing herself from life's chaos through meditation or going to an ashram, she has opened herself to moving through life more slowly, taking in all that is beautiful and interesting and worth appreciating. And violà. I was inspired to return to my blog. And when I did, I found that I was 14 months past my last post.

I like my last post (Aug. 29th? 2009). My first impressions of life in the Gulf. How far my impressions have come since then. I feel a little sad that I haven't written about the between-time. But that's okay. I was living life and keeping up and enjoying myself. But I do sense that something is missing...and that's the creative side of me that loves to write, reflect, write. So this morning, I decided to write instead of research. My binder and all its contents are still spread out all over the couch and coffee table in front of me. A reminder of what's next. But I'm happy to have stopped for a moment and did something that I truly appreciate.

On the Arabian Gulf (not the Persian Gulf!)

2009-08-23T19:40:00.003+02:00

It has been four months since I last wrote. I considered even giving up the blog for good. Not because I was uninspired, but because finding the time to write on it wasn't happening.

But. I am now in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, and how can I not write!? Let's start with this. I bought two abaeyas yesterday (I don't know if I spelled that write, but it's pronounced a-BIY-ah). They are the long black dresses that women in the Gulf wear. "Gulf fashion," the stores like to advertise. I found two beautiful ones--one with embroidery on the sleeves, another one with beads running down the front and along the sleeves--made by a Pakistani tailor. I never thought I'd wear one of these, but I will. Not because I have to, but because they will make dressing for work easier. I won't cover my head (I don't have to), and I won't wear them every day, but strangely, I think I'll feel quite graceful when I do.

To fill in any gaps, I'm here on the Arabian Penninsula because I took a job with a Pakistani company (Beaconhouse Education Group Ltd) who was awarded one of the contracts issued by the Abu Dhabi Education Council for its school reform project. I am part of a team of about 20 people going into 4 schools grades 10-12, 2 being boys' schools, 2 being girls' schools. Our focus--per the royal prince--is to focus on the grade 12 students, and our main objective is to raise not only academic standards, as well as improve pedagogical approaches (of teachers) and leadership (of principals). My role has not been clearly defined yet (orientation officially started today), but my title is "English Language Development Trainer." Rather ambiguous, yes. I do know that I will be responsible for both girls' schools, and I do know that I will be working primarily with the two principals of those schools. My team is really incredible, with us having 200 years of experience collectively...in at least 20-plus countries all together!

So I arrived 6 days ago, to both pleasant and not-so-pleasant surprises. Yes, it's hot (100-115 degrees every day--day and night!). Yes, it's the desert, so there's not much greenery (though Abu Dhabi is one of the greenest cities for being in the desert!). Yes, it's "developing" rapidly--ie, construction everywhere! I also knew, despite having been told differently, that I would be living in a "satellite" city to Abu Dhabi, not in the city itself. The city is named Musaffah, and it is an industrial city with labor camps....though it is now becoming a residential city. I am in the "new" residential zone, which means that on every single side of me, there is not a single finished building. There are 12 cranes within the view from one window. There are at least 7 more in the distance. There are more cranes per square mile in Abu Dhabi and Dubai than in any other part of the world. And now it is Ramadan. This means that the construction workers do not work during the daylight while they are fasting. It's just too dangerous to be up on the scaffolding (which severely lacks in safety regulations!!) in this heat with no food or water for hours. So instead, they work from 8pm to 3am. Last night I hardly slept with the banging and shouting and drilling and sawing and metal clanking going on nonstop all night. I'm not sure what's worse, my clanking air conditioner or the clanking construction outside!? But on the upside, Musaffah is an older, smaller town, which means that there's nothing of the nightmare-ish traffic that defines Abu Dhabi. There are also no fast food joints, no chain stores; everything local, everything cheaper and easier to find and easier to get. I can walk outside my door (and past the construction barriers) and find myriad Indian restaurants, Lebanese bakeries, Sri Lankan spices, small grocery stores, enormous bags of rice, dry cleaners, barbers, tailors, bikes, rental car shops, rugs and tacky bedding, and EVERY single cell phone, cell phone accessory, charger, and SIM card you could possibly need for yourself and fifty other people!

I am ever so thankful that Junior is here. Without him I would have been completely lost. And not having nearly as much fun navigating all of this! (Granted, even with him here, I'm having the occassional break-down!) We have gone exploring, rented a car, shopped, cooked, cleaned, played games, haggled, drank, found the equestrian club, and then spent the most relaxing day yesterday splurging on a day at the Hilton's private pool and beach area. It is heaven. And there, you completely forget that it's 110 degrees outside, as you sit under water falls and relax in hammocks or under umbrellas. It was divine. Now it's back-to-work time for both of us.

There is loads more to say, but I'll save that for another post. There are no photos because I haven't taken any yet! Plus, this internet thing I have is pretty slow, so uploading will take forever. I hope to get all of that changed soon!

What you don't know about your cell phone

2009-03-25T11:58:00.005+01:00

Your cell phone is made from a mineral called coltane (as is your iPod, your microprocessor, etc.). It's a mineral found in the Dem. Rep. of Congo (DRC). Because of the scramble for this mineral and the way it's being taken out of the country by Western and Chinese multinationals, 40 women are raped each day. (Of course the mineral exists elsewhere, but nowhere else can companies get it for cheaper!) It's now considered one of the deadliest wars...and yet not much is being done to address it.

I just went to a most amazing presentation and round table last night with Laetitia and her mom. I'm so glad they included me, because it not only was absolutely necessary to learn more about this situation, but it sparked what has been recently brewing in my mind: the need to be involved again. The discussion was lead by the French Sec. of State for Human Rights, France's youngest minister ever, being in her late 20s/early 30s, and Eve Ensler, the writer of The Vagina Monologues. I had no idea that the woman who wrote that play was such an activist. But she is, and her message is extremely powerful. Stop raping our women. Violence against women CANNOT be normalized....and if we remain quiet, if we let the women be humiliated by their violations (instead of the men who did the raping!), then we are sanctioning the violence. And it will continue. There were representatives from numerous other organizations, as well as a good audience ready to engage with the panelists. It was inspiring...and madenning.

The following is Eve Ansler's organization: vday.com; and here is a link to a 60 Minutes story that was done in 2008 on the war and the raping of Congolese women: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/01/11/60minutes/main3701249.shtml?source=search_story. And below is my own response/reflection after having experienced what I did last night.

How do I sit here and write about the ideas that I just heard articulated so eloquently last night in a context where they weren’t just formulated behind a desk in an office on a university campus, but were learned and felt from the vibrating rhythms of dancing and crying and shouting and sharing? How do I bring together all of these brilliant ideas, those which make my body feel nervous with surging energy, those that make me want to get out and act, to organize and give back and move forward…how do I bring them together in any meaningful way when I am limited to 2 dimensions? Limited to dialogue. Limited by language, which isn’t even necessary when the dancing, crying, shouting, and sharing convey more than words in any language ever could. When body language and a simple touch can say more than bungled French coming out of these American fingers? My fingers will always speak, my hand will always move across the paper. But my body can’t sit any longer. My conscience knows that I have stories to collect, experiences to recount. That my soul has been disengaged for too long, that I’m ready to pick it back up and see where it will take me.

What's not being said

2009-03-19T18:50:00.003+01:00

The Pope was all over the French newspapers this morning. The reason: He's in Africa (Cameroon) for the first time, and the message he's spreading is one which condems condom usage as an effective way to combat the AIDS pandemic on the continent. He says, "You can't resolve it with the distribution of condoms"...."on the contrary, it increases the problem."
This is not a surprising stance, despite the fact that it's the first time he has directly discussed condom usage. Right. The Catholic position is clear: premarital sex is a sin; contraception is not to be used. The Church seems to not talk about the latter very often anymore, and most Catholics have (at least in the US) chosen contraception as a family planning method.
But condom usage (or lack thereof) in the fight against AIDS is a new stance. And one that, in my opinion, carries with it a lot of assumptions. Harmful sexist and racist assumtions.
The first assumption is this: that everyone getting AIDS is having sex outside of marriage. The second: that AIDS would not spread if people were, in his words, adapting a "responsible and moral attitude towards sex."
Let me say that IF everybody was having sex within and only within marraige, there would be a sharp decrease in the number of people infected with HIV. But isn't that the case in EVERY society!? But that's obvious. What I want to look at is what's between the lines, what's being said in the absence of words.
To address both of these assumptions, I'm going to draw upon my own experience in Zimbabwe. Just less than 10 years ago, Zimbabwean women didn't have the right to demand that their husbands wear a condom when HE was HIV-positive. So within the marraige--therefore sanctioned sex, according to the Catholic Church--women could not protect themselves against infection. How are the husbands contracting the virus? From an economic, exploitative situation brought on directly by imperialism. Men were first drawn into labor via the colonial government (often forced labor), which today has taken the form of multinational corporations. This means that men are working in mines, on oil fields, on farms, and extracting every possible natural resrouce from their country for the benefit of a multinational corporation which sends not only the raw goods, but also the profits abraod. They work for months on end away from their wives and families, coming home only for a weekend here and there. No doubt there are "sex workers" (as they've been called in Zimbabwe) who work the bunk-houses where the male workers are housed. Then the men carry whatever infection or virus they might have contracted back to their wives. (I don't want to indicate that all men are behaving this way, though certainly some are!) The problem here is two-fold: economic exploitation has disrupted the family unit; and, without condoms, nobody is protected. Would the absence of all sex solve the proble? Sure. But unless eradicating prostitution and keeping sex strictly within the confines of marriage is truly possible (and when, in ANY society, has that been achieved!??), then condoms are, quite frankly, the best way to keep people safe. And that includes people who have sex WITHIN their marraiges.
What also lies in the unspoken is the age-old stereotype that African people have lascivous sexual appetites. That their societies also lack the necessary structure for curbing such sexuality...which makes Christianity and Islam (besides capitalism) the strongest forces moving throughout the continent. What's not being discussed, however, is the history: the way in which those two religions in particular completely disrupted the social structures in which sexual relations WERE governed within African societies. Premarital sex was outlawed among some African peoples, while it was not among others. No matter what the case was, African societies quite effectively managed the sexual affairs within their groups, and sexual promiscuity, sexual devience, and sexual violence were highly punishable. Missionaries were colonialism's "cultural" arm, and their responsibility (their "burden") was to change societies (which in the case of Christianity, meant bringing them into compliance with Victorian values). I won't go further into THAT (though I could, as I wrote over 100 pages about it last year!), except to say that religious conversion imposed different family models and thereby put enormous strains or eradicated completely the communal living that characterized, organized, and managed all aspects of life--including sexual relations and expectations. And contrary to other misrepresentations which have been perpetuated, the vast majority of African societies--pre-colonial invasion--were quite balanced. Because they had to be for survival.
I want to conclude with a Yoruba saying: "O n pami, o lo n gbami" (You are killing me but you insist that you are saving me).

Sensory memories

2009-02-06T16:01:00.003+01:00

Completely random....here are some of the sensory memories that have made me more alive:

the smell of horses sweating and the feel of their deep inhales and exhales after a good ride
swinging in Sturzl's hamock
listening to roosters crowing at 5am in Harare
mom playing the piano at night while Josh, Jon and I fell asleep
the distinct ambulence siren sound that reminds me I'm in Europe
the smell of dad's shirt when I'd hug him after a work day at Sargento
the sharp smell of the conductor's sweat while leaning over me in the ET (afternoon rides were more memorable)
the feel of my blanky on my neck or cheek
the taste of grandma Suemnicht's chocolate chip cookies....and of taking Andies candies out of their fridge
my first sips of Tanganda tea
listening to Cyndie Lauper in Madison with Leah while driving out to the marsh
the smell of books from the library
the clicking of my new/old typewriter
the smell of my African mudcloth, which I use as a bedspread....it still smells the same as when I brought it home
sound of Jon or Josh bursting into the house shouting that the other one had a bloody nose
the first Saturday that I woke up to the ND marching band playing the fight song
singing Garth Brooks to and from horse shows
the smell of breaking open a new bag of shavings in a freshly-stripped stall
the sound of the Mullet River behind our Riverview Rd. house...and the small stream that ran off to the side of it
sitting inside the wooden teepee at Shelly's house, the sun shining between the logs

It's still swinging

2009-01-25T00:20:00.003+01:00

I'm listening to a sappy Neil Diamond song. Totally random, my mix, that is, of all 3678 songs in my iTunes. But Neil Diamond is singing, "you are the best part of me...the part that allows me to open my heart and let love inside." But I'm not skipping forward, because something resonates. How difficult this is. Truly. There's something very interesting about being 30 and single...something very wonderful, very liberating...a chance to explore and experience and learn and grow deeper into who I am before bringing somebody else into the equation. Something my Mom never got to do. Something most of the women of my mother's generation didn't get to do. We have choices, we have fewer social expectations, fewer constraints. We have the world open before us. Hmmm. And with this lack of constraints and finger-wagging, we also have tougher decisions to make. Nobody's going to make them for us....or tell us what to do. And then there's the "independent woman" defense. There's the comfort of having created and settled into a certain life, a life that can easily feel under seige by somebody who comes along and wants to be a part of it. And perhaps make some renovations. So it is increasingly difficult to open the heart and let love inside. As I've come to realize. Until somebody comes along and gently pries the door open, takes his time walking through, but won't allow you to slam it in his face either. Even when you try. And thank goodness for this.

The pendulum swings

2008-12-02T19:01:00.003+01:00

A girlfriend told me that when you move back to the States after living in France, everything is even-keel. Everything is more simple, more efficient, everyone is more accomodating. Life is much easier. The lows aren't as low; but the highs aren't as high either. You don't get that thrill from having argued your way into a residence permit extension, you don't walk five miles and talk to seventeen different people trying to do just three errands in one day, you don't touch the untouchable (it's already been done and put on the shelves of your local WalMart), don't marvel at yourself after having participated in a debate in a language that you didn't grow up with. But your packages aren't lost at the post office, your doctor offers you all the options before making the decisions for you, you can finish a list of to-dos in one afternoon, and calling your cell phone company to inquire about charges doesn't cost you 34 cents a minute. The gyms are beautiful and clean, with smoothie bars and Clif bars, but walking into a North African bar requires you to get in your car and go to a specific (and probably discouraged) part of town. You will never be charged 280 euros for owning a television (audiovisual royalty....is it really that much of a luxury these days!?), nor will someobdy called a "hussier de justice" in your neighborhood hunt you down and threaten to confiscate items in your apartment. But you will pay health insurance and medical costs through the nose. You don't come out of the metro with tears only to run into the ex who said he hoped you understood why he could never see you again. You don't meet your next lover in the library, but you also don't stay up talking until 3am, because you have to be at work at 8am the next day. You can find health food on every corner, but you can't get a decent baguette. You no longer know where your beef came from before it was wrapped in celophane, but you can get Neuskee's thick-cut bacon. You only have to make a phone call to resolve problems, as opposed to writing formal letters with all the proper etiquette phrases. Bottom line. The post office in the USA no longer uses hand-written ledgers to track packages. This is the "old world." And in general, I find it quite charming and agreeable. But not today.

This, too, is Paris

2008-11-13T09:46:00.004+01:00

EuroNews does a segment called "No Comment' where they just show video without commentary or explanation. It's really powerful. Occassionally uneventful (when you strip away all that we inject to create drama...).

This is my No Comment. Only to mention that it's a photo taken in my arrondissement at a sit-in against homelessness...where homeless people literally constructed a contained shantytown of tents, blankets and boxes. And they stayed there for months.

Photo taken by Jimmy Louchart of the blog Paris Environs

Jimmy Louchart / CC BY 2.0

It could be worse

2008-11-12T15:11:00.003+01:00

There are a lot of crappy jobs out there. When I was little I thought the worst possible job belonged to the garbage man. Today a new one tops my list. A jack-hammer operator. There is one across the street from me. All day he's been starting and stopping with that most horrible machine. Not only is it jolting him around, he's wearing a helmet and ear protection....but he's the brunt of hostility from every business person and resident on this street trying to work, live or just watch tv. Even the passer-bys are irritated by his work. Unfortunately for the jack-hammer operator, he is the one to blame for the lack of peace today.

Je suis américaine

2008-11-10T16:05:00.004+01:00

Every French newspaper had his photo covering the entire front page. There were photos from his childhood within, entire spreads and special supplements. The French are SO happy about Barak Obama. (And well, I wouldn't be writing this if I wasn't SO happy too!!) I wanted to blog the very day after the election because the energy was palpable. My brother Jon called to get a guage of the internation response....which I confirmed to be quite positive. There were parties upon parties throughout the city...though most of us decided to stay home to watch from our sofas (results weren't in until 5am for us), calling and texting each other to report our heightening excitement as the results rolled in. I was riding on a tidal wave of happiness after the election, but I wanted to wait to write. Perhaps it would just be a passing fad. But just two days ago I was in the fromagerie buying some very stinky cheese I wouldn't have dreamed about eating 3 years ago when a typical-looking French man was monopolizing the check-out cheese cutter's attention. He was so animated, his white hair poking out from underneath a black beret...and I wasn't listening at first, until he opened his jacket to reveal suspenders with American flags all over them! "Je suis fiér! C'est le premier fois que je les portes!"...."I am proud...it's the first time I'm wearing them!" He wasn't American. But I broke into a huge smile and told him how much I loved his suspenders. And that I, too, was proud. He congratulated me. And in fact, since the election results last Wed. I've been congratulated by French people, British people, a Kenyan friend, some Algerian girls...and my Angolan-Brazilian friend told me that he wanted to pack up and move to America. The world truly is still celebrating. But they're not just celebrating Obama. They are celebrating us, we Americans who made this decision, we Americans who showed the world that our voice is strong and that we truly ARE for progress, that we are interested in putting ourselves and our country on a different path. They are proud of us. And as an American citizen abroad, I can feel the shift in perception. Just this morning I passed by a store displaying Obama shirts in the window. "Hope" is the word written below an artist's depiction of his face. It's a week after the election, but I have no doubt that the shirts will remain. This energy is lingering, and I am happy to report being happy to say, "Je suis américaine!"

Legal to research

2008-10-23T19:50:00.003+02:00

It doesn't look like much...a little yellow cardstock thing (which only looks big because of the angle and how close it is to my computer's camera!)....BUT this is the much-needed "Certificat de Scolarité," meaning that I am official here. I just got my student card and these things in the mail....so now I can proceed, once again, to the Prefecture to solidify my residence permit. Until Aug. When I will either go home or enter the process again. The coolest part of this card, for me, is that it says "M2 R Lettres modernes"....meaning 2nd year Masters in Research. I'm a jeune chercheur. A young researcher. Now I have to get off of blogger and get back to reading!

An interesting road ahead

2008-10-19T14:13:00.002+02:00

I have started my second year's master's classes. I switched schools, changed programs even, and have been greeted with the stark and very real reminder that I am NOT in an English-speaking country. I say this because, in all honesty, I sometimes forget. The majority of my friends are anglophone...and those who aren't, can speak English quite well...and prefer to! In Paris, if you ask nearly any ex-pat if they are friends with more French people or more foreigners, they will laugh aloud as if you asked the most assinine question possible. Foreigners. Bien sûr! We find each other in this home away from home...we form bonds easily in our displacement. And we form friendships on a common language that doesn't leave us without great expressions, in which we can be completely ourselves, in which we can actually be funny! So I find myself speaking more often in English than in French. Which is too bad, of course, and yet when a French prof says that we must cut ourselves off from people who speak our language, I think there's no way that I would choose to continue living in this country if I didn't have my core group of friends!
All of this is to say that this year I'm no longer operating to any extent--academically--in English. I will also write this year's 100-page thesis in French. Argh. I worry about eloquence, I wonder if I can be nuanced, I fear that I can't be poetic or visual. Not to mention the extra time it will take to look up words I don't know, to find (or not find) equivalent expressions, and to ensure that my structure is "French" enough. I will have to find several readers/editors...I can't just sit down and let me ideas flow...and I will rarely be entirely certain that what I put on the screen won't, in some way, be modified, cut, or re-written by somebody whose French is maternal. But I guess the time had to come. I have to remain positive...and perhaps write myself a note on the bathroom mirror: "You are still smart in French."

Oh, the France

2008-10-12T19:45:00.003+02:00

I could be a movie star, or a robber. I never know in this country. The other day I was walking home and several men on the street kept staring as I approached them. The one, holding a baguette sandwich, suddenly got an excited look on his face, and he hurried up to me and asked for my autograph. "Why?" was my natural response. Then the other two guys are looking at me, scrutinizingly, one saying, "Non, it's not her," the other, "Yes it is her!"...guy with the sandwich is still looking at me eagerly, says, "Well, you are ****, non!?" Non. I'm not her. I laugh, walking away, still being eyeballed. Then on Friday I go to my local Monoprix...it's a small and more friendly version of a WalMart here. Groceries upstairs, home/beauty/clothes on the street level. I grab my toothbrush, soap, mascara, head upstairs for the only thing I needed up there: a package of toilet paper. I was going to check out upstairs when I remembered that I wanted to find a water-filtering pitcher. So I went back downstairs. A plain-clothes guy approached me: "Did you pay for that already?" he asks while reaching over my arms to touch the pack of toilet paper. "Non, not yet." "Oh, well, you cannot be downstairs with that. You must pay for it upstairs." Hmmm. Okay. I had already inquired, when I was new to the store, if I could pay for items from the downstairs, upstairs. Yes, not a problem. So I tell this plain-clothes security man..."Oh, I see...I can carry things upstairs, but not downstairs." Right. I ask if I can just grab the water filter and head right back upstairs to pay. No. I was standing right next to the stairs...needing to go into the ailse RIGHT next to where we were talking. No. Not possible. You must go upstairs immediately to pay! Really!? Wow, alright. So I go...and he's coming with me. I ask him, yes yes yes, he must now accompany me to make sure I pay. Hmmm. Even wants to tell me which cash register aisle to get into! He waits at next to the cashier, he watches me, he then goes to walk with me back downstairs. He leans in and confidentially says, "You know, I really should have taken you as a robber, but I know you are not....so you just have to obey this rule and then we won't have to take you into security!" Wow, alright...yes yes yes, I understand now the rule, thank you very much sir, and no, I am not a robber. So I'm back downstairs, now looking for the water filter. A tall man with a "Security" sweater is now talking to Mr. Plain-clothes. Security dude walks up to me and says, "Mademoiselle, I need to see your cash register receipt." WHAT!? Are you joking!? I actually started laughing. A 6-pack of pink toilet paper was causing THIS kind of commotion? So then I ask him where, in the store, is this ever-so-serious rule posted so that the customers KNOW not to make such an infraction. Oh, it's posted somewhere. "But WHERE?" I inquired, now getting completely annoyed. Oh, but it's a rule. RIGHT, a rule that is NOT posted anywhere. I argued and laughed and finally suggested that perhaps they make the rule visible. And left the store. They didn't carry water filter pitchers afterall. But the worker in that department couldn't tell me that. She just gave me a "Pfff" and said she had no idea if they carried such a thing....I should just look around to find out! But then today I had a moment of redemption. I went to the outdoor Sunday market, and at one of the butcher's, I asked for chicken breasts. The butcher pulled out the whole chicken....threw it on the wooden block, and proceeded to whack off it's head, it's legs, and then dive into the center to extract the center white meat breast. Whew! I got skin and all, a few bones. But he liked my eyes. Thought I must be from the north of France. (Usually I'm mistaken for a German, so that was a completely new identity mistake!) So he gave me a champagne-corked bottle of blond beer! It's local to some region of France, though I don't know where. Perhaps the North. Just tucked it right in there with my chicken wrapped in paper.

And there is a Part Deux!

2008-10-03T16:16:00.009+02:00

Summer vacation part two takes place in the States. It makes me realize, though, that I am completely discrediting almost 4 weeks of vacation in Paris! I can honestly say, though, that my categorical self almost blocked that part of my time, knowing that I still had my trip home to follow. So going home meant first going to Monterey, California, for my Mom and Paul's wedding. It was more fantastic than I anticipated! I was lucky to stay in the same hotel room as my mom...with Leah as well and Paula in an adjoining room. So we did our hair together, our make-up...drank wine, talked at night, and tried and re-tried different outfits together. I got to see the excitement in my mom as she awaited her wedding. And I think the second time is quite powerful. To say those vows to somebody after having lived them with somebody else. To know what they truly mean, to understand what that commitment entails, to be courageous and confident enough to make it work. My mom and Paul re-discovered each other, and I am so happy that they have both found happiness in their relationship. I didn't know necessarily how the marriage would change the dimension, but after having been home, I get it. I saw it. I felt it. So....going back, the wedding in California was amazing....

Then I was back in Wisconsin. The first stop was a trip to Lake Geneva to see my friend Steph and her now 5-year-old daughter Auden. This has become an annual affair, and it's such a joy to see Auden's growth each year. This year to see her start to swim, to ask questions about my family, to watch her act out entire scenes from The Sound of Music...she can recite poetry by heart, she sings Ani DiFranco, she even drove the boat. Then at night, Leah, Steph, and I sit on the couch or porch and sip a little wine, talk, and occasionally dive into the container of custard! I then had time with my dad, got to see his last softball game of the season, didn't help at all in the house he's working on, but I did help pick out two vanities, sinks, and fixtures! We made dinners, sat out by the pool, spent time at Crystal Lake, took some morning walks (though we both agreed, not enough of them!)...and had some really great and necessary conversations. I also played with my high school class in a fundraiser softball tournament. Leah sat on the bleachers with my dad, Mom, and Paul, as they all watched me strike out every single time! I also got to spend some time in Milwaukee with Josh...hang out in the Cholive headquarters, go out together, meet up with mutual friends of ours...and I even got to see one of my former students from LE. My mom and I also did our summer peach canning... And then for the first time in 12 years, I went to the Sheboygan County Fair!! The cows, I adore. Had to see them the first night with my dad. We also went to see my horse, Mac, and I almost cried when I walked into his stall. I bought him when he was 4, and he's now 22 years old! And still looking and moving beautifully! Then we found my cousins and their friends...people I knew from years back, friends I showed horses with...and we all experienced an Oil Can Harry concert. I can't remember the last time I drank so much beer, nor had so much beer spilled all over me! The only logical thing to do, then at 1 am, was to go to my dad's pool! I then got back to the fair with my mom and aunt...and we did all the animal barns (particularly intrigued by the poultry! what diversity!!), did the crafts barn, looked at the canned food and knitting and cases upon cases of breads and other baked goods!

And then I went down to Chicago. Leah moved into the most fabulous apartment...so I helped her unpack, arrange and re-arrange...we schemed about the best places to read, to dance, to talk on the phone, to watch the sun turn pink, and to, of course, drink coffee! I also got to make a trip to Indiana to visit Obadyah. His situation deserves its own posting...so I will save that. I got to see my old hair-dresser, Patrick, who gave me a fabulous cut...got to have dinner with cousin Nic, hang out with Heather Foley...and just enjoy time being with Leah in her environment.

Then merely days later, the Munsterer's arrived. They are my sister-in-law Molly's family! They all came for the Ironman triathalon in Madison....which my brother Jon was, of course, participating in! With cars packed full with coolers, food, cowbells, sneakers, layers, an outdoor tent and chairs, and even a megaphone...We carpooled to Madison, where Jon had already arrived and checked out the course with his coach, Pete. The weekend was absolutely amazing. Inspirational. Non-stop fun! We were such a good "Team Jon": Munsterer's, Becky (Molly's sister), Josh, Leah, Paula and Dan, Pat and Steve, Dad, Mom and Paul... of course the two yellow labs, Scout and Duke! Molly made us all matching t-shirts, and having loaded up on a carbo dinner, we were all ready to hit the course at 5:30 the next morning! Jon of course got there much earlier! With the sun rising over Lake Mendota, all the swimmers got into the water. It was like a sea of minnows when the cannon sounded and everyone spanned out across the water. Jon finished his 2-mile swim in an hour. Paula and I watched him transition from the swim to the bike...we all met up, and then drove out to our spot along the bike route. The bike was 112 miles...and we were at marker 45 and 90 miles. We met up with Pete, set up 2 tents...and then proceeded to yell and cheer and clap and dance...make human pyramids and do kick lines and ring bells for the next 5 1/2 hours to cheer on the bikers! I think Jon gave us the biggest complement ever when, after all was said and done, he said that we were the most fun cheering group along the entire bike route! Oh, we had energy. (And when that lagged, we went to the coolers for beer!) Then we went to downtown Madison where we caught Jon on at least 6 times along the marathon route. We kept on cheering, taking more breaks to sit on any grass or pop into a bar from time to time. But then 12 hours later, we all parked it at the finish line. Jon (still running!) came through at 12h45min. He did sooooo well! The sun had set over the capitol building, and there was music blasting...and Jon was so amazingly still full of energy! He had more than we did! We took photos and then went back to the hotel where none of us could even walk anymore. But Paul had brought celebratory champagne, so after getting Wendy's burgers, Jon and Molly came back to meet us all in the hotel where we opened champagne and re-invigorated ourselves by re-counting the days events...and asking Jon a thousand questions! The next morning we had IHOP breakfasts and thanked our stars that the day's rain hadn't fallen during the Ironman. And then I had to say good-bye. And it all felt very strange. To Josh the night before, to Leah after breakfast, and to Jon and Molly at the hotel. But it was the most fabulous way to end all of our summer vacations. Because all summer we'd all been talking about Italy...then California...then the Ironman. And when that final benchmark is over, a different reality hits. So next: Christmas!!

Summer Part 1

2008-09-23T14:42:00.008+02:00

Jon and Molly visited me in Paris back in June. They were here to greet me at my apartment with flowers and champagne when I finished and passed my thesis defense. We walked, we took our time, we ate great food, we danced and danced, and we ended up at a Chinese restaurant for a poetry reading we never heard. But we ate Chinese chicken and got inappropriately hit on. We talked at night and laughed over beers, ran into a problematic washing machine at the laundromat, hung out with friends, and stopped often for coffee and wine.

Then we all met in Amalfi, Italy. In a villa for 14 people, we had a rather revolving door of friends and family in and out for 2 weeks. We started days with yogurt and coffee, did yoga and spent entire afternoons on the concrete slab by the sea. We jumped from the cliff and took group swims over to a public beach, we snacked on bread and procuitto and pecorino, we ordered our groceries daily with the help of an Italian dictionary and Leah's sister Mari's preparatory Italian lessons. We ordered local wine. We got lemons from groves above our house, tomatoes on the vines with leaves, entire half wheels of fresh cheese, Italian meats wrapped in paper, fresh basil and beans and zuccini. The chefs gathered at 8ish, everyone was showered and dressed up for nightly dinners. We played music and lit candles and cooked for 14 people...Polenta and pasta, rissoto and vegetables and salads and fresh fish (thanks to Nic!). We played games or just sat and talked in the soft light of the moon across the Mediterannean.

Leaving the villa, Leah, Mari, and I went to Rome for 2 days. Then Leah and I went to Greece. Trouble getting out of Rome, I ended up in Athens a day after Leah, but we eventually got on a ferry to Santorini. Thank goodness that Santorini quickly negated the horror of having rode the ferry for 12 hours, sitting and sleeping only on a wooden bench breathing in dark black ferry exhaust. But we hit the beech in Santorini. And never left it. Really. Our hotel was right on the beach walk, across the pedestrian street from the pebbles and tiki umbrellas that mark the beaches of Kamari. Outside cafés, warm sun, a day in the "capital" city of the island--Fira--which led to an entire afternoon in an artist's studio, drinking his father's wine, smoking Greek cigarettes, and listening to classical music. He took us to a super local dinner in the old port, where we pulled apart freshly-grilled sardines and calamaris, washing them down with little beers. Andrés. Amazing art, very interesting man. Sizzling cheese, dolmas, eggplant salad, tzaziki, moussaka, stuffed tomatoes...(clearly a foodie's delight!) The sunsets were amazing, the people so open and friendly, and every night we found ourselves out with new groups of people.

That was summer Part 1. European vacation. Beach vacation on the Mediterranean. I returned to Paris without my bags, in a sun dress, to find 55-degree weather and rain. But July wasn't all that bad. Though I admit that it doesn't qualify as vacation Part 2. That took place in the States. And that will be a new blog altogether....!

Where to Start???

2008-09-12T02:31:00.003+02:00

But really, how to I return to blogging after a 3-month hiatus? After having had the most amazing summer in the 30 years I've been living? After having passed through several milestones, come to some pretty important realizations, and built memories that go way beyond the beauty of the photos. I don't know. But I know that the summer is over, it's now Sept. 11th (can't help but always think back on this day...where I was, who I was with...at LE, first period composition class), and I will now settle back into the routine that makes up the life I've chosen at this time. Summer, all that it beheld, and the way I chose to spend it are all elements that also make up the life I've chosen. The best of the best, really. But even the all-star team breaks up and goes back to the batting cages. Thank goodness Paris is more exciting than my batting!!! (As evidenced in the softball tournament I played in where I struck out EVERY time I went up to bat!)

I don't know where to start. So I won't right now. Besides, it's 2:40 am, and I really should be sleeping. My body isn't quite adjusted. Or else it's the emotional high, the motivation, the energy I'm cruising on after having just (finally!) watched Obama's DNC speech. Wow. THAT is the America I want to say I am a part of. This is the embodiment of what I believe it means to be an American. But sparing political talk (for now)...this is just a blog posting to say that I WILL be posting blogs soon...I have MUCH to tell, pictures to show, thoughts to share. Stay tuned, please, if you haven't already given up all hope of this blog ever coming back to life! It's coming back.

30. A year of Balance.

2008-05-13T22:44:00.005+02:00

So I hope, anyhow, that 30 will be my year of balance. I say that only because I DO feel so balanced at this point of my life...and there's something profound about passing into this decade of my life. I know major changes will occur, I will have to make life-changing decisions, and Lord only knows where I'll be at the end of this decade!

My 30th birthday passed with a bang. My mom was here...I had a great party...and happened to be on break during that time so I could really take advantage of the time with my Mom...and just enjoy the moment!

And there's something intensely satisfying to be completely unattached right now. I know that Buddhism teaches that we have to let go of "holding on" to things...to people, to the past, to expectations, ideals. And this isn't easy. To let go of the ground beneath our feet. It's a contradictory message to all the other stuff we here...get "grounded," settle down, make roots, solid ground solid ground. But I get this, and it resonates with me. I do not want to lean, to depend, to be "figé" (stuck) in some place, some time, with some person...I need to feel completely whole and fulfilled just with me. Paris helps me do that. In some ways, it forces it, I guess...makes me think of a conversation I had over a glass of wine with an ex-boyfriend turned friend. I asked him if he goes into every relationship thinking long-term. His response, "Well, I am 32 now, Amanda! And what do you go into a relationship thinking?" Something new, something challenging and yet complimentary, somebody to ignite that which is latent but needs help shining, somebody with whom I can just "be"...in this moment. But that's because I'm here for who-knows how long. This is home, but not home. So how can I think long-term in the short-term...when this is on uncertain terms? And so I just am me. I'm not saying this works for everyone....cuz I know that people like to put down roots. Heck, I've GOT roots here...roots that I can't imagine yanking out right now! But as I walked home from an increadibly hard yoga class last night...after meeting some friends for dinner at a friend's new restaurant...sitting outside, walking home in my moccasins, making no sound, seeing the Seine sparkle and the warm breeze float over my bare shoulders...I just felt so free. No drama. No waiting. No wondering. No big decisions right now. Just here and now. And I want to maintain this balance. 30 is great. Now to maintain it without thinking about its "maintenance"!

Short and Sweet

2008-04-18T00:30:00.003+02:00

Just a quick one. My mom arrives in 8 hours....and I realize that it has been, oh, 10 years since we last spent 6 days together...just mom and me! I can't believe it. And I am ready (and with a clean apartment!) for some nice bonding time. Might even re-walk our last time together, which was right here in this very city, when I got my purse stolen, lost my passport, had to run to the American consulate on the day we were getting on a train for Italy and mom had to find boxes to wrap up and send home the winter clothes she'd packed and didn't need! We were here during the World Cup....while it was in Paris...when France won and the night of the stolen purse when we wandered back to our hotel at 2am, small French cars packed with flag-waving, scarf-wearing Frenchmen circled the block with their horns blaring. That was 10 years ago. And we wandered this city feeling very foreign and ordered with trepidation...when the smells were different and the streets unfamiliar. And this time it's my city, which I can share with my mom...starting with a haircut with my hairdresser tomorrow, followed by lunch in Montmartre (Josh, I promise we're going to the same resto you and I ate at!)....and Edith will be our tour guide in the Louvre and we will hang out in the café and see Molly's baby and do a dinner with her mom when her visit overlaps my mom's visit...and we will celebrate my 30th birthday with people who know me well but haven't known me long...and we will clean my windows and plant my flower boxes and go to an antique/art fair and sit in parks. We will look at cherry blossom trees and reminisce about Door County and eat Sunday brunch and probably do some shopping.
And I can't wait. 8 hours. Now 7hours40minutes. Must go to bed. Clean, ironed sheets. Vacuumed and on-hands-and-knees-scrubbed floor...forgot to buy fresh flowers but we can pick out some tulips tomorrow.
Good night!

Random thoughts

2008-04-08T22:14:00.003+02:00

Two nights ago it snowed. There will still piles on the wooden decks around the library when I arrived in the afternoon. This is a strange place...where we have spring-like weather all winter and then have snow in the spring. Alas. I saw Alicia Keys in concert with Mél, Kat, and Laetitia last week, and I will say that her voice is absolutely incredible, maybe even better live than on her albums. More rich, more varied...and she never stops! But. She, as a person, disappointed me. I guess we don't get the same media coverage over here, because I seemed to be outta the loop that she IS an immature person who doesn't have a whole lot of depth. Nobody at home was surprised when I made that remark about her personality (or lack thereof!) during the concert! But I was surprised. She was packaged, scripted. So now we have a big group going to see Mary J. Blige in June. I have pretty high hopes for her!! And then on Saturday, we threw Molly's baby shower. She loved it...and I loved seeing her and seeing Savanna!
And on a totally different subject, I should be working on my chapter that's due on Thursday...but there is a documentary on France 2 right now..."68". It's about the many, many revolutions that occurred in 1968. They just finished the portion on the US...protests against Vietnam, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and JFK. Just amazing. The images, and the interviews and video footage...the music and the history....and I just can't help but think about how the structures of power are no different now...in fact, if anything, they are stronger, more centralized, visible and covert at the same time. And yet, we have nothing of the sort today. Well, to some extent we still do in Paris, but much less in the US. Are our lives just that much easier today? Is there less to fight about, to fight for? Is my generation that complacent? That passive? That disengaged? Distracted?
I have no way of wrapping this up. Oh the times, they are a changin'.

Day off

2008-03-24T11:42:00.005+01:00

The Monday after Easter, being today, is a national holiday in France. I still haven't figured out why such a secular country's national holidays still line up with the Catholic feast days. Nevertheless, the library is closed, the gym is closed, many businesses are closed....certainly the bank and any useful errands I might run are out of the question. So. I will write today in a café. I have become such a library junkie that writing in a café presents all kinds of obstacles (space, noise, outlets...!)....which is crazy because I remember countless hours I spent at Alterra in Milwaukee, grading papers and planning lessons and working on my teaching certification courses. That WAS my library! And I wish there was an Alterra in Paris. (Hmmm....an idea!?) But there are only Starbucks, in way of American-genre coffeshops. And the Starbucks depress me. They are dirty and all the same....but, in fact, if I want a big 'ol American coffee in a paper cup with a lid, it's my only option.

I don't know why I'm even bothering to mention Starbucks when there is a LOT of good news to share! First, I had an amazing visit from my friend Heather Foley. We share the same birthday (though she's a year ahead of me)...our dad's were roommates at Notre Dame...and we grew up with our families hanging out at ND tailgates or their family coming up to WI for various reasons in the summer. And Heather and I have always connected so profoundly, and yet we've never actually spent a stretch of time together. And ceratinly not as adults. So when her parents bought her a ticket to come to Paris for her 30th birthday, I was ecstatic! But life took crazy exciting turns for Heather at the same time that she was supposed to come last year....And hence she finally used her ticket this year. She stayed with me for 10 days, and never once did it feel cramped in my studio apartment. Cuz we do SO much the exact same way! Cooking was a breeze together, shopping for food, walking around the city, splitting up for the days so I could go to the library....meeting back up at 8pm to have a glass of wine and make our dinner plans...I was so lucky to have her here! We laughed so hard and sang Joni Mitchell and fought with our flipped-inside out umbrellas in the street, danced and stumbled home at 4am. Lingered over coffee and just had endless good conversations. She's amazing.

THEN, just when Heather left, my friend Molly gave birth to a baby girl! She and her husband Yann named her Savanna. Savanna Chevance. Beautiful. I went to the clinic less than 24 hours after her birth....and it was just increadible to see one of my best friends be SO very much HERSELF after going through childbirth. Molly is an absolutely beautiful mom...and I loved seeing her navigate motherhood...not knowing what to do, having loads of questions and sometimes looking lost...yet doing it all with absolute grace. (It's normal, i know, that giving birth doesn't somehow give you the absolute knowledge or "instinct" of motherhood!....but sometimes I fear my friends will take on a different, foreign persona after having a child!) So there is a new girl to add to the group...and she will have a lot of aunties!

And then, in much smaller news, I have crossed some major hurdles in my school year. Last semester was crazy busy, and this semester, though only taking 2 courses and writing my 100 pages, has seemed even worse. But I crossed a major bridge on Thursday. I finished 2 oral presentations....and those were either all or half of my grades in those 2 classes. So now I just have a 15-page paper to write for one class (and believe me, 15 pages is nothing these days!)....But for the most part I am just focusing on my own research and writing. And I've already got 40 or so pages under my belt (though 40 pages which still need revising)...and I'm working on the next chapter, which flowed right from the last, and I just feel such a sense of relief. That I can work now at a normal pace, and without the added stress, I can ENJOY the writing that I'm doing, without pulling nearly all-nighters to meet deadlines amidst preparing for other classwork.
So....now off to a café I go....maybe it will be a Starbucks....but I will enjoy the "Lundi de Pâques" holiday (Monday of Easter)....AND luckily Charley is still teaching his Ashtanga 2 yoga class this evening. I will be there.

And the oyster returns

2008-03-03T20:38:00.004+01:00

I have no business writing now...though I have a lot of business of catching up to do. But not now. I have killer deadlines coming up and so much writing to do. And I cannot motivate cuz I just spent the last 4 marvelous days with my best friend on the planet!! From the Opera Garnier to Chez Janou, the café and out with the girls, walks and walks and sunshine and glasses of wine and a normal Sunday night of "lost" and pizza....Everything made that much more special to share it with Leah. And....we just had a blast and laughed and discussed everything under the sun. So since I have no time to write, I'll just let the photos speak for themselves. Next stop: Italy!

Not a fan of January

2008-01-21T22:21:00.000+01:00

The holidays have come and gone...my 2 weeks in the States went by as fast as ever, though leaving me with such a good feeling. New Year's eve in Paris, then my last 2 weeks of class...to finish my first semester. And yet here I am, mid-January, and wanting sunshine, a beach, another trip, time with my grandma, a fireplace, a night out with Leah....something. I shy away from anything too sad sounding on this blog...but Jenna Sims-Gray is my role model of honesty...and so I am choosing to just put it out there. She says that's what blogs are for anyhow. Besides...no life is roses all the time! The low moaning of something missing, something not quite being attained. And I ask myself if it's the season (maybe I am looking for roses!), the time of year, too much time indoors...and all the much harder questions going way beyond the weather. The January-February funk (good term, mom!). I need spring. I just bought a comfy chair that's being delivered to my apt. tomorrow....a 1930s refurbished leather beauty...old and worn and full of character and experience well beyond my years. I've been thinking about one--and looked at them at the flea market--for nearly a year. This was the time I needed to buy it. So tomorrow night I will be cuddled in my chair...with the book I'm reading...hoping that little by little the funk will fade with each espresso and candle lit. A good laugh, Tewfik's arms, a nice meal, a fun night in the café. But in the meantime...until spring inspires, here are some photos from the past month of so!

To be reminded

2007-12-02T14:45:00.000+01:00

I just read my brother Jon's blog posting about how running affects your state of mind and connects you in time and space with where you are. I totally agree! I even reflected back to when I did morning walks...seeing only street sweepers and the occasional early-motivated business man, cutting through the narrow cobblestone streets of Paris, past churches and boulangeries baking bread, through parks and gardens. I loved it. But there's something about this city that moves one into the rhelm of night, moreso than morning. Despite morning being my favorite time of day...I now associate mornings with waking up and looking east from my bedroom window, the sun illuminating the acres of fields...mornings are walks along the lake in Milwaukee, the sun also rising over that immense body of water, he wings of the art museum going up...early mornings are leaving my apartment in Chicago at 6:30 before any light of day with my travel mug of coffee and two pieces of buttered toast...getting blinded by the sun finally on the overpass of the Dan Ryan heading south just past downtown Chicago.
But here in Paris, mornings are gray, often rainy, nobody is moving before 8am, you are lucky to find a coffee before 7:30, and while still inspiring to some degree, it's nothing compared to the nights here. Night-time in Paris IS the reason this is the "city of lights". It's breathtaking...crossing the oldest bridge, Pont Neuf, looking across the Seine at the Eiffel Tower and the illuminated gold dome of the Institute de France...the glittering reflections on the river's surface. Not to mention the night-time energy. People are everywhere, they are happy to be going out, as opposed to going to work...they are with friends and they look beautiful--dressed for dinners and drinks and maybe even dancing. There is less noise, or at least it's muffled, and the street lamps cast shadows on the cobbestone streets and everything looks clean and somehow museum-like.
And so while I sometimes still jog through my city, these days I discover Paris either on bike or by night. During the strikes, I was on the bike going everywhere I usually went by underground metro. And what a delight! I discovered that Paris has a small zoo--"menagerie"--that there is a park leading right down to the river, I discovered the most quaint streets ever on the Island of St. Louis (the smaller one in the center of the city)...that there is an old Parisian diner called "le cérise de Paris" (the cherry of paris...think of the rhyme when pronouncing Paris the french way!). And otherwise I just walk. I'm not much of a jogger. I do it...for the obvious cliché reasons of weight loss and body image, but I've never loved it. But I agree whole-heartedly with my brother. Knowing your surroundings--or rediscovering them--is quite an amazing energy-boost. Moreover, it reminds me of why I am here. Why I've chosen this city.

homeward bound

2007-11-26T22:47:00.000+01:00

an old message from my mom that i never erased, a song that my dad used to sing while playing his guitar when i was young, a smell that reminds me of my mom and dad's closet...a photo of my brothers and i when we were young, or just thinking of the layout of our old house, my african bedspread and a book that i've taken with me everywhere i've lived since 1999. i am needing home. memories and nostalgia, seeing photos of jenna's new baby and getting an email from a teacher who i worked with at LE who now lives in Vegas...my old friend Sheila is leaving Milwaukee. nothing remains unaltered. and yet some things remain untouched in my memory, triggered by just the right stimulus. change, it's the natural order of the universe. of course, this is what is supposed to happen, and thank goodness that it does...but sometimes it just feels like a lot (not too much, just a lot) going in so many directions, like nothing is as simple as it used to be. and yet it never felt simple at that time either. the isolation of memory is both beautiful and detrimental, allowing me to think that a different time and place could be recovered, that just singing "be not afraid" to my brothers at night would bring me back to a time when getting my pony to stop eating grass when i led her to the pasture would be my biggest challenge. so i need to go home, to be back in plymouth, to be surrounded by my family, to recuperate a bit of that which i am missing. it's not the same. nothing is, in fact. but i can take the bits and pieces and forge a new memory which will carry me back to paris and sustain me until the next time i fly across the atlantic.

La grève

2007-11-15T20:08:00.000+01:00

This is the 4th day in the past month now that the public transportation workers have gone on strike. I can't make sweeping judgments about how ridiculous their demands are (though they ARE ridiculous!)...but I can make sweeping statements about how absolutely annoying this situation is! At first I was amused. "Snow days"...a great excuse to have a day to do whatever I want. Since my school is in the northern banlieu of Paris, there are no trains to take me there. Okay, cool. But now it's just too much. Maybe it's because of the truly frigid weather that we're now experiencing...or maybe it's because I really do like my classes (and I know we are going to have to make them up anyhow...usually on Saturdays!)...or maybe because, like today, we are all fighting each other...because collectively "we" have become hoards of people who are actually getting in massive lines to access the "1 train out of 6" that is actually running (not to mention that you'd be squashed like a sardine if you actually waited in that crazy line to get into one of those train cars!). I'm not clausterphobic, but I decided to walk. And it is cold. And I'm carrying my computer, and even in the metro stops the escalators aren't running. Like they're trying to find every cruel way to make people suffer. (So we pick up a banner and strike with them!?) So here we are...those of us who rely on public transportation....cutting our losses so that the train workers can maintain their retirement and enormous benefits package after 37 years of governmental service. (The bulk of the other "fonctionnaires" have to work 40 years...but running the trains is more taxing. Clearly.)
On top of that, even if i COULD have gotten to my school today, it was blocked by students! I would not have been allowed in. Why? What are they objecting to? Not sure on this one...because it seems to me they are just jumping the gun on ANOTHER strike already planned for Tuesday...a strike for ALL state employees...And oh yes, all professors are state employees. So class has already been canceled, in advance, for Tuesday. My professor will not be there. But the rental bikes are in full action. Everybody is getting more exercise. Or like my friend who has been stuck in Paris since Tuesday night and finally had to get home today, he had to shell out 45€ to get home by taxi. So, who am I to say that nobody is profiting!?

French countryside

2007-10-28T18:27:00.000+01:00

My recent trip to the Durdonge region of France (southwest, en route to Bordeaux) reminded me to what extent I remain a country girl at heart. After a 5-hour train ride through the French countryside, looking out over rolling hills and little villages, rivers and stone bridges, we arrived in the small city of Le Buisson. A shuttle bus was waiting at the train stop, and he took us to the chateau where we'd stay for the next 3 days...celebrating the wedding of Steph and Sly, two dear friends from the Café Latin family. We arrived to find those two, along with the guys from the café--Victor, David, Yann, Danny, and Guy--and Steph's brother and his girlfriend and friend. The chateau was covered in vines already turning bright red for the fall, a series of small out-buildings surrounded the main one, all in yellow-white stone, the back side of the chateau overlooked an enormous valley, mostly forest, with the wide Durdonge river cutting through it, the hillside opposite spackled with homes and farms and small field openings. Stunning.

The guys fired up the grill, us girls set the enormous table under the tree overlooking the valley and opened bottles of wine, and we cooked out a lunch...followed by lounging in the sun around the pool. That night we all re-convened wearing masks. Yes, it was a masked ball...started with champagne outside the chateau, the cold country air cutting through our silk dresses. We had a dinner, followed by a dance with the rest of the crew who'd arrived...about 60 or so...mostly all of the young friends.

Saturday was the civil ceremony at the courthouse in the village. It's quite a beautiful (and obligatory) tradition in France; everyone assembles in the courthouse, the bride and groom are dressed up (the bride wearing a hat, of course), as is everyone else, and the mayor reads the official statues the govern the parameters of marriage in France. It's much more personal than it sounds. Following the ceremony, we all walked in the sun through the small village to the quaint and beautiful hotel at the bottom of the hill by the church. Awaiting were tables of pastries and tartes and chocolates, and of course, glasses of champagne and wine. We sat on the terrace and in the garden, in the sun, visiting and mingling until our stomachs were growling and we decided we needed to return to the chateau to fire up the grills. We all changed out of our clothes, the guys started making burgers, and we spent the rest of the late afternoon, once again, by the pool. It was then time to get ready for the religious ceremony. We all reconvened outside of the chateau, were given candles, and as the sun was setting across the valley, the ceremony took place. Stephanie was absolutely beautiful, not to mention incredibly strong, and we all held our candles and listened to the priestess and the two of them exchange vows. We all put our candles on the rock wall...champagne was popped, and two circus men entertained us with music, juggling, dog tricks, transporting one back in time 100 years when this type of entertainment was common faire for chateau gatherings.

When the champagne and hors d'oeuvres were consumed, we moved once again into the other building for dinner. The dinner started at the same time as the France-England rubgy semi-final...so dinner started with half of the group singing along to the England national anthem (Steph is British)...the other half following up with "Les Marseilles", the French national anthem (Sly is French). The French lost...but dinner was animated by the game and loads of conversation and the consumation of fois gras (a spécalité of that region), stuffed guinea fowl, cheese plates, and of course, loads of desserts. Sly and Steph started the dancing, and once we got started, we didn't stop until 7am!

Sunday involved a big brunch at the chateau for all the guests, and then nearly everybody left, except some of Steph's closest English friends and all of us from the café. So we changed into swim suits again, David found tennis raquets, we set up badmitten, played next to the pool, then Victor and Greg pulled out a bow and arrow...as Steph's friend Fogg said, "We are living Great Gatsby". Yes, exactly. It was increadible. Pitchers of beer and snacks and the sun and bathing suits ( or just bras and underwear....we're all pretty comfortable family at this point!)...until the sun was setting and it was getting cool. The chateau owner, who'd been cranking out the most amazing food the whole weekend, then prepared a dinner at the large dining room table. We all sat around the enormous kitchen fireplace (you could honestly STAND 8 grown men inside the fireplace)...drank an appératif...and then assembled for a 4-course French dinner. We all stumbled into the living room afterwards and passed out on couches and chairs watching a movie. With the exception of Steph and Sly, we all left together on Monday afternoon. Though separated with different tickets, we all assembled in the same train car, traded magazines and candy bars, retelling stories from the weekend and trying to catch a little sleep.

The weekend could not have been more beautiful. I am so happy for Sly and Steph, as they are so clearly in love and have the support of so many people. And the weekend just confirmed for me, once again, how lucky I am to truly have this loving, fun, and sincere family-outside-my-family. And, the girls kept joking with me...saying that they weren't going to leave me there, no matter how many times I said, "Oh, I could definitely live here." And I meant it! The freshness, the clean air, the starry nights, nature and simplicity of life...even the sight of cows and crops and bales of hay...I was SO in my element. For many, many reasons.

Lisbon

2007-10-18T16:53:00.001+02:00

My good friends, Sly and Steph, already had their wedding 2 weekends ago...and so there are stories and pictures I must post from that. BUt FIRST, I have to back up to the end of Sept. when all of us girlfriends went to Lisbon, Portugal, to celebrate Stephanie's bachelorette party. Hen weekend, as they call it. We flew there on a Thursday evening, arrived at our 4-bedroom, 3-bathroom, beautiful-terraced apartment, went our for traditional Portugese food, stumbled upon a reggae bar...and then got lucky with a beautiful day of sun (and caïpevoskas) on the beach...and Steph's British friends joined us Friday evening...so we were an entourage of 12 going to dinners and clubs...enjoying our apartment terrace and dancing until dawn. It was really incredible. I'll just let the pictures tell the rest...

Snow Day and Gentines

2007-10-18T15:43:00.000+02:00

No, we don't actually ever get snow days in Paris, so the Parisiens have come up with their own excuse to not work from time to time. It's called a transportation strike! And it's going on today! So I'm home from school...tried to find an open library to do some work, but with no transportation other than my feet and a bike (which are really hard to find today...everyone is on Paris's rent-a-bike system!), I wasted 2 hours, only to find signs on EVERY library. "Pérterbations à cause de la grève." Expect to be perterbed. Well, I'm not perterbed. I'm just enjoying the day!

And now I can take a moment to catch up on internet business. I've fallen behind on all forms of communication since starting my courses last week. It's going to be like that from here on out, I think.

So...the Cousins Gentine were here a few weeks ago! Kristin, Nicci, Shelly, and Leah...girls time in France...husbands and kids at home...and it was really just so enjoyable. We walked and walked wherever we felt like going, stopped for lunch, for shopping, for photos, sometimes in front of monuments that I couldn't explain...ate amazing dinners and even had a Gentine family dinner! Boris Gentine and his wife, Anne Caroline and her husband...and us. Bringing the French branches together with those of the American side. Really really cool. Morning croissants and scarf hunting and shoe hunting and "not eating dessert"...and a fabulous final dinner overlooking the city of lights. It was really special. I am so thankful that they were able to come...thankful to their husbands for making it possible!...and happy that I had the opportunity to share my life here with my family.

Roots

2007-09-11T16:36:00.000+02:00

The Gentines of the USA have now outnumbered the Gentines of France. Yes, we're the only "Gentines" who exist...so it's rare, as I'm learning, to find more of us. Well, more of us in France. But...thanks to facebook (which is also a recent obsession of sorts)...I found a Boris Gentine and a Pierre Gentine. Contacted both of them...yeap, we're all from the Alsace region of France...they knew of the Gentine group that left in the mid 1800s during all of the ongoing wars in that region between France and Prussia...knew that this group settled in Wisconsin. Pierre knew that there was a "cheese factory" involved.

So both were really responsive to my emails...we went back and forth...and just this past Thursday I met Boris for a drink. He's amazing. Quite simply... And it was so fun to recount stories and put things together...shared the family tree with him, which he's going to pass on to his dad and uncle...and I learned that André Gentine is the premiere ear surgeon in France...that Pierre is going to MIT to study water science...that the "Joseph" name has continued in nearly every branch of the tree...including Boris's 2-year old son! So I am responsible now for organizing a dinner with him and his wife, Anne Caroline and Fab...(my other distant cousin...who Boris doesn't know)...and some friends. He lives just north of me...and it's a pretty amazing feeling to know that I have family here who is willing to help me out if I run into any problems or need questions answered. Or just need to call technical assistance with my cable box! And we'll meet up with Pierre when he's home from school in Dec. Pretty darned amazing.
(The attached photos are of the area where our ancestors lived...and the house of Boris's family...which is almost a mirror image of the one my mom and I visited, in the neighboring city, belonging to my great-great-great grandfather before he immigrated to the States!)

I also have found a surrogate uncle here on my street. A 65-year old Israelien man named Dov...born in Casablanca and grew up on a Kibbutz in central Israel...and is now here on rue St. Sauveur. We met in the laundromat...just started talking about the price of American t-shirts...and then continued to run into each other in the street...took a coke or coffee or two together at the café across the street where the cook's window looks into mine and we wave and say hi to each other... So today we had a lunch date...ate Italian and toasted in Hebrew and then returned to the café across the street to have a coffee and say hi to everyone there. He has an interesting story. And some Sunday he's going to take me to his favorite Israelian restaurant in the Marais (heart of the Jewish quarter)...

And besides all that...I am OFFICIAL as a graduate student at Paris 13! The registration process was surprisingly simple...everyone was so nice and I now have my student card, my "certificat de scolarité" and I register for my classes in the beginning of Oct. It feels quite surreal...I am in the French system...a place I never imagined I'd be had you asked me even last year! And I am consuming novels this summer like I haven't consumed in years...African novels mainly...though I just started a Turkish one several days ago. It all feels quite exactly as it should be.

Ode to Dundee

2007-09-03T16:22:00.000+02:00

Why shouldn't she have the spotlight? She wasn't my childhood dog. Charlie gets that honor. She was never our best behaved dog. London takes that prize. But she is most certainly the most affectionate. She will sleep by my bedside when I stay at my dad's. She will lay outside the bathroom while I get ready. And only when I am ready (even if it means going half-way down the stairs several times, thinking I'm following, only to turn around and return), she will accompany me downstairs. She has evaded intestinal problems, had a near-miss with cancer, and has to have her food poured on the carpet before she'll eat it (discovered when she almost starved herself to death). She's a finicky one. And I'm not a "dog person"...but I sure am happy that Dundee is there each time I go home.

Tichionana

2007-09-03T15:47:00.000+02:00

Really, where do I start? A delightful trip up to Lake Geneva, being a part of Auden's first experience putting her head underwater. Having a day of non-stop conversation in the streets of Boulder with Jon...a girl's day with Molly...endless back-deck conversations and the LoDo experience...our Estes Park adventure....and Estes Park again...and again...horesback riding in aqua socks. Time on the pier at Cyrstal Lake and kyacking...Sargento BBQ at Lou's. And Chicago. It only gets better with each trip back. An unexpected view of Wrigley Field, bar-hopping and making friends. And more friends. Fabulous food and wine and diner breakfasts with free coffee refills...making the wedding dance mix in the midst of chaos. Eye make-up and shopping and St. Patrick's basilica downtown. Bagpipers and oh so many sexy Scotsmen in kilts...daggers and champagne and brie-filled philo pastries...Scottish dancing...spinning followed by Beyoncé..."Do you fancy a dance?"...foreign accents...Being in the American minority, perhaps. Being at the singles table. Terrible bars turned into fantastic bars and continued dancing until all eye makeup was gone and then all of us were gone. And back to Wisconsin. Porch time and pool time and painting time. Chester's drive-in and Lola's on the Lake...pitching practice in the rain. Cathrene's arrival...playing softball with the class of '96...pitchers of beer and going out with the high school gang...another trip to Chicago and an unforgettable night out...kidnapping Leah to Plymouth...sitting on the sunny porch overlooking the fields...blanching, skinning, canning peaches, singing at the top of our lungs and making fresh pie...throwing a dinner party...Nic and Paula, Josh and I, Cathrene and Leah, we overtook the adult's table. I don't want to talk about saying good-bye. Milwaukee time with Mom and Josh... dinner and African literature conversation with dad and Lou and Michele...finally finding the shuttle bus in Milwaukee. I don't want to talk about saying good-bye. But see you at Christmas.

From both sides now

2007-09-02T00:37:00.000+02:00

It's my favorite Joni Mitchell song. And I can't quite put my finger on its significance right now, but this song pops up in my life at some key times. And makes so much sense. Maybe it's being back in Paris again after another trip home...and it was harder than normal to say good-bye. "Well something's lost, but something's gained in living every day." I guess it's the humbling notion that, even when everything seems so "on"--in this case, I was accepted at the Master's program here in Paris...the ducks are in a line, and I feel certain that it's exactly what I should be doing--even then, and perhaps especially then, I don't have it all figured out. The choices, good and good. The places, fantastic and fantastic. The friends, amazing and amazing. So now what? Is it a gut feeling? Is it faith? Is it the belief that everything happens for a reason...that once again, I might never figure out?
"I guess this is the price we pay for living in a world with so much worth believing in."

Only in France

2007-07-26T11:24:00.001+02:00

I learned two great things yesterday. First, a ripped stomach is called a "tablet de chocolat"...yes a chocolate bar. (Though only in America...or Germany...would such a ripped stomach be a "6-pack"...) And in giving a lesson on degrees of temperature: hot, warm, cool, cold, frigid...my student made a shocked face when I said "frigid." "You use this frequently?" he demanded. Yes, of course. He laughed...and said, cautioning that it was awkward for him to explain to a woman, that "frigid" in French is a "maladie," a true illness. It's a woman who does not take pleasure "in this life." Read between the lines. Must have chocolate and pleasure. Welcome to France.

(Image: Miss.tic. Artist and poet who puts her stenciled images and messages all over Paris!)

Back in the USA

2007-07-02T21:33:00.000+02:00

I met Leah in the Chicago airport, we shared a glass of wine, ran to our plane, and thus started our California adventure. We call it World Tour. Back in 1999 in the sweaty town of Triangle, Zimbabwe, Leah, Stephanie, and I took an evening walk while the sun was setting over the low-veld. We vowed that, as we got older, we wouldn't stop travelling together. We wanted to see the world together. And two years later we made it to New Zealand...then had a bit of a hiatus until last year we were all in Paris together. This year it was California. Steph lives in Altadena (in the foothills of the San Gabriels just north of Pasadena), so it was the perfect destination, and the perfect opportunity to spend time with her daughter Auden--Leah and my god-daughter. Auden is amazing, and is sure to grow up a rock star...whether its in music or politics! We completely took advantage of the LA area--beach, hiking, farmer's market, flea market at Rose Bowl stadium, great home-made dinners and nights out over jerk pork and sangria or mediterranian goodness. We also road-tripped up the coast, camping our way along! Bougie campers, we laughed...showing up at ranger stations in Steph's Volvo, wearing skirts and hoop earings...eating our brie, fresh bread, and chicken sausages. And it couldn't have been better to sleep in a tent every night, either listening to the ocean crash or the stream trickle through the redwood forest in which we stayed two nights in Big Sur. We lunched and picniced and drank wine at night over marvelous dinners...cooked over the fire once, talked sex and politics over the fire the other nights. We sat in hot springs, soaked in the stars, marvelled at the beauty around us, walked on deserted beaches in the morning and found quirky breakfast cafés. We broke open a water spicket, created a geysur, protected a seal, ran from overly-friendly squirls, discovered that beer nuts are gross, that rosé lasts without a cork for nearly 24 hours, and that we could set up and break-down a tent with record speed. Ah, World Tour 2007 California was super.

Then it was on to Wisconsin. In just over a week, I think we packed in just as much if not more than we had when I was home for several weeks last summer! My brothers and I were together with my dad for father's day--church, golfing and hanging out at Crystal Lake, an amazing dinner and bonfire, joined by my friend John. We hiked with mom in Terry Andre park, followed by the Brewer's game. My grandma turned 98 years, so I got to see most of the cousins and aunts and uncles on the Gentine side. My mom and I got to do a post-mother's day--a full mother/daughter day of pampering and picnicing in Milwaukee...I got to just hang out at my dad's pool and at the lake...went to dad's softball game and bonfire...sat on mom's beautiful screened-in porch and made strawberry jam and hung out with Josh in Milwaukee. It was a whirlwind, but couldn't have been better!

Backing it up...

2007-07-02T20:26:00.000+02:00

I've been a blog deserter! I'll be surprised if anybody is still checking this...considering how long I wait. But I draw inspiration from my friend Jenna, an equally sporadic blogger whose page I still look at. And when I do, I'm always glad I haven't given up on her blogging. I'm hoping you give me the same leeway!
To take it in reverse, an awful lot has happened since my mom and Paul were here. For starters, Josh came for a week. He got stuck mostly just with me! Nearly all of my friends were out of town...but it afforded us countless hours of discussion (not to mention the seemingly endless amount of time we waited for a pot of tea in our first-ever tea-house experience!). Hence this photo. And...we were idiots and only took THIS ONE photo. Not even one together. Guess we were too busy talking and walking to stop and capture US in any particular moment.
Then Henderson arrived. We did all kinds of great stuff, as well as everyday stuff together. From drinks to the gym to finding a tanning salon, going to see his friend dressed in drag, hanging out at the café, computer time and getting out navigo metro passes....you name it! But no, we didn't take any photos either (though I specifically remember us talking about doing so!). In the meantime, Aunt Pat and Uncle Steve arrived. This was their first time in Paris, and they couldn't have been more excited...or more open to just experiencing and trying and exploring! Steve marvelled at the small cars, the self-cleaning public toilets, the public system of transportation. He kept saying, "They've really got some things figured out over here!" It was exceptional to spend that time with them! And in that meantime, my cousin Jeff and his wife Michele arrived. We went out for dinner to the Moroccan restaurant...then ended up in the North-African-inspired bar next door. Without expecting it, we were there until after 1:30 am, just talking and telling stories and enjoying the American disco music. Somewhere in there, Leah's sister Mari and her girlfriend arrived...so that was another night of Moroccan fun...and an opportunity to meet another NY friend of hers who freelances and happens to be enjoying 2 months in Paris. So Laura--the GQ, Maxim, Stuff columnist--and I have met up numerous times for dinner, drinks, park time, etc.

And, I most certainly cannot forget two incredible events: My surprise birthday party and the Justin Timberlake concert! First things first, the girls arranged a surprise luao-themed party for me. I arrived to all of them in grass skirts, tropical clothes, and flower lais...the Beach boys were playing and Molly's apartment was full of balloons and paper palm trees; the lamps and stairs were covered with colorful fringe, and skewers of chicken, beef, and vegetables were cooking. Later we indulged in a full-on American (ie--Duncan Hines from the box!) chocolate cake...followed by card games and the inevitable tequilla shots! And yes...then in the beginning of June we all went to see the Justin Timberlake concert. He was incredible!! I don't even know what more to say...except that we had a blast...tried to track he and Timberland down after the concert (Edith was on a mission...and she was dressed the part!). Managed to see Timberland leaving in his car...had no luck, but still found our way to a club afterwards.

One last bit, I also started working in May for a language school. All of our clients are large businesses, and we work directly in their offices to teach (mainly one-on-one) English. I have some great clients, fun young people for the most part. It's fun to be teaching again, meeting new people...and most certainly collecting a paycheck! This also enables me to (for free!) enter the French social security system...meaning that I won't pay another medical bill (or even a perscription medicine!) as long as I'm living here! Somewhere between all of that going on in May, I also tracked down two African literature/postcolonial literature professors--one at Paris III, one at Paris 13. (In France you have to find a prof to direct your thesis before you even apply to a masters program!) Both schools have excellent comparative literature programs with courses enabling me to focus on African literature (written in French and English). I visited the schools, took numerous language exams necessary for entrance in the French system, completed applications and effectively applied to both masters programs. Now I have to wait and see...

And then I left for the United States. To be continued...

Road-tripping in Europe

2007-04-25T10:04:00.000+02:00

I am backing up a bit to share some photos and events from my mom and Paul's trip out here for my spring break. They had perfect weather, so we were fully able to enjoy Paris's terraces (that's what they call the part of the café that spills out onto the sidewalk)...walk a lot and sit outside in the courtyard of their hotel, a favorite place for pre or post-dinner cocktails and roudy card games until the bartender has to shut us down. On Easter we went through all the markets to pick up dinner ingredients and wine...then we hung out in the Jewish quarter eating falafals and listening to some non-Jewish group playing Jewish folk songs...and we enjoyed a very normal night just hanging out in my apartment while I cooked a some-what French meal followed up by a cheese plate and patiseries from the bakery.

Then we drove to Germany...to Heidelberg where our hotel was nestled up in a hill which overlooked the Neckar river, a large forest-covered hill, castle ruins, and a mideival stone bridge. The first chancelor of Germany after WWI, we discovered, is part of Paul's family tree' The town was filled with Ebert landmarks! We followed the Neckar river through the valley to get to Stuttegard where we went through the brand-new Mercedes Benz museum. Then on to Baden-Baden...bath-bath...home of roman bath-houses. The people in our hotel were spectacularily witty, and we ate an amazing meal in the hotel...with our waitors teaching us the German word for "Sorry/Excuse me" by bumping into my chair, pouring Paul the largest snifters of cognac...and I think we laughed the rest of the somber crowd right outta there! We wandered Baden-Baden...through the park, along the stream, flowers blooming...then we drove to Frieberg where we were delighted to find a small midieval city with a canal system (that was used for sanitation but today is cleaned up and there's one man in charge of keeping it that way!)...buildings dating back to the 1100s (like our hotel, the oldest in Germany!)...and, finally, we found a beer garden. A real picnic-tabled-filled, trees, gravel, order your beer from the window, right across the cobblestoned street from the local brewery itself sorta place! We ate pretzels and drank beer, ate another wonderful German meal of schnitzl and meat medallions...but somehow nobody served Black forest cake! We were IN the black forest, and couldn't find it. So we went out for a late-night-post-dinner walk to find some. We discovered a maze of old streets and cute nooks and cranies, but no cake. Finally we just went back to the beer garden where the trees were lit up. We made friends with the group of young people next to us...who proceeded to answer nearly every question we'd come up with about Germany.

We drove back to Paris through detouring in and out of the Black forest...finally found some cake which wasn't all that amazing...and arrived back in Paris. That weekend we went wine-tasting, had dinner with Edith and Molly (after which the rucous card-playing occurred!), did some shopping and more wandering, got our fill of fois gras, ate Indian food...and then sadly had to say good-bye. It was SUCH a special trip...and I can't imagine a better way to have spent my spring break! Thanks, Mom and Paul, for coming, for everything you did while here, and for just experiencing my life with me!

My treat

2007-04-20T09:20:00.000+02:00

I remeber as a kid at SJB when each student brought a treat to share on our birthdays. Todd Melcher's mom always made the most outrageous treats--angelfood cake in ice cream cones covered with pink frosting and sprinkles...or pudding in a styrophone cup with a gummy worm inside and oreo crumbles on top! She went all out. But my mom didn't have time for that kind of all out...and so we came up with an even better idea: Dilly Bars. I remeber the day before, driving to Dairy Queen and going inside to place the order...mostly chocolate bars, then caramel...and just a few strawberry. Nobody really loved the bright red ones. We'd load the bulging white paper bags into the minivan the next morning (on my birthday, my mom always drove instead of Kathy or Mary Krause) and I received a special pass to take them--with a friend, of course--to the cafeteria coolers to keep them frozen until later. Then because my birthday is in April, I was usually lucky to have weather warm enough for a special trip outside to eat our ice cream treats. Maybe that was part of the trick in bringing Dilly Bars: the coating always cracked and slid off, leaving ice cream to drip from the sticks before we could get to it, so it was in our teacher's interest to just let us enjoy them outside!

Now my birthday is around the corner of tonight. And yet its not just my birthday that I love, but the enitre month of April. I build up this whole month...spring driving away the gray clouds, warming up the days but leaving the nights unpredictably cool. People start leaving the house in flip flops or strappy sandles, pulling out spring colors and spring jackets, skirts and spring attitudes. While Paris never fully removes the café tables from the sidewalks, they do take down the front wall windows and open doors, bringing the outside inside. Tables multiply outside, even across the street from cafés at night when the flower shops and butchers pull down their metal security doors. And rue St. Denis becomes an outdoor party. Cars blasting music and even more people just milling on the street, sitting on their scooters or hanging out of their car doors. And the thing is, as with anything else, summer comes and the excitement wears off...but in April, nobody can get enough. Its the Dilly Bar of the year.

Just figures

2007-03-29T15:29:00.000+02:00

I called my salon yesterday to get my "fringe" cut....these are "bangs" in just about every European country, and they could only fit me in at a time that wasn"t terribly convenient, but I took it because if I hadn't I couldn't get in until after the 11th of April. Why? They will be closed for a week and a half. Paul emailed me yesterday about the location I gave him to rent the car that will take us on our 4-day Germany adventure. But that location is "temporarily closed". Then today I rushed home from school to get to my salon, only to have the woman shaking her head when I gave her my name and apointment time...."tsk tsk"-ing at me, saying the "rendez-vous" was for tomorrow, not today. So I took it well and went on my next errand to the post office. I walked right into the lobby without paying any attention to the big eisel in the entrance...found it diserted with hand-written signs reading "guichet fermé" at each station. Window closed. Okay....so I went back to the entrance where a man wearing a "La Poste" jacket had just walked in....and I asked him what was going on. He just pointed to the board and said, "Grève!" Strike. And then, just to top things off (really...I am NOT joking....each of these things happened between yesterday and today!), I opened my mail to discover that my gym will be closed for a week in April due to "traveaux". Work. Or construction....both, really. I actually put it on my calender. Gym Fermé. At least then I'll know!

And just one more gripe about this systme....I am still fighting (or re-igniting the battle, to be more precise) the 108€ tax that the governement wants to charge me for an espresso machine that my friend Henderson mailed to me...even though the thing was bought IN Paris in 2005 (and therefore was already taxed at 19 percent!), has been used over a thousand times....AND I already wrote and faxed a letter explaining all of this when customs originally wouldn't release the package. So now my tax bill--because I didn't pay it, thinking my letter was sufficient--has been passed to a collections agency and I have to still battle them. But the best part is this--they want a HAND-written letter explaining everything! (Sadly I didn't save my old one.) They must want to do some hand-writing analysis or something...make sure I'm really who I say I am...who knows!?

Okay, and finally I have to share this photo. This small rally happened several weekends ago. It's a protest against more recent measures that make prostitution more "dangerous" for the prostitues. I don't know any of the details...but they claim they're less protected now. So they took to the streets. My street. Of course. (I AM smiling at this point!)

Foreign Films

2007-02-25T14:45:00.000+01:00

The Academy Awards are tonight, and there are 2 foreign films nominated that are both fantastic. "Indigènes"--translated as "Days of Glory" is an Algerian-French film about how France recruited soldiers from its colonies to fight on her behalf during WWII. About 3/4 the soldiers came from Algeria, and not only were they on the front lines, but they weren't treated the same, and even afterwards (though this part is not in the film) they were given 1/3 the pension of the French-born soldiers. That law didn't change until Oct. of 2006, after the release of this movie, when Chirac decided that these soldiers who were still living would receive the same compensation.
Another film definitely worth seeing is "The Lives of Others." This is a German film about the Stasi in East Berlin during the 1980s before the fall of the wall. It follows how one couple--a writer and an actress--are suspected of going against the communist government. You learn about the web of under-cover Stasi spys but also the life and conditions under this repressive regime. And I can't say anything else without giving away key aspects of the movie!
Last year's foreign film winner is also exceptional. "Tsotsi" takes place in Soweto, one of the largest black townships during apartheid in South Africa. It is still the only movie after which I watched every single extra feature on the DVD.

Some Paris updates

2007-02-18T13:41:00.000+01:00

Okay, to lighten things up...Paris has a small army of green street-cleaning trucks. They are working around the clock, their high-pressure hoses blasting trash, cigarette butts and, of course, dog poop into the gutters. The men running these machines dress in all green and use their green plastic-bristled brooms to sweep everything into the gutters. You'll find old rolls of carpet in the gutters, as they use these to strategically direct the trash-filled water away from one drain and into another. They don't bother picking them up since the very next day or so, they're at it again.

Also, yes it's true that Paris is joining so many other major cities around the world with smoking bans. I really never thought it would happen here. Sipping tiny cups of espresso while diving into philosophical conversation with a cigarette in hand is just so French! But almost a month ago now, Paris has banned all smoking in public buildings and spaces. I'm not sure how it's going, but the even bigger test will hit Parisians on Jan. 1st 2008 when all bars, cafés, restaurants and clubs will be smoke-free.

And just as a side note, I read a movie review yesterday on a film coming out called "Avenue Montaigne." I actually don't know if it's a French or American film, as it's in French with subtitles, with French actors and actresses, but it hasn't released here yet. That makes me think it's American. But what really makes me think it's American was the disclaimer at the end of the movie review: “Avenue Montaigne” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). The film features some characteristically French and French film behavior, including drinking, smoking and trysting. Only until Jan. 1st 2008!

Beyond CP-Time

2007-02-18T13:01:00.000+01:00

"...The European and the African have a different conception of time.
"For the Europeans, time lives outside of man, existing objectively. According to Newton, time is absolute. The European depends on time, is a subject of it. To exist and function, he must observe time's immobile and unalterable laws. He must respect delays, dates, days, and hours. He places himself inside the laws of time, imposing on him its rigors, demands, and norms. Between man and time exist an irresolute conflict that always ends in the defeat of man; time destroys man.
"Africans perceive time differently. For them, time is a much more open, elastic, subjective category. Man influences the formation of time, on his course and in his rhythm (it's really about man listening and reacting in consent with the ancestors and god). Time is even a thing that man is able to create, because the existence of time is expressed between those who cross each other in a particular event. It's man who decides if that event will occur or not...Time is a result of our action...it is a passive being, always dependent on man..."

(Translated from the book pictured above)

The strictly-observant perspective, written in the 60s, sheds interesting light on some of the present-day dilemas in Africa today. I'm thinking of medical treatments, notably the administration of AIDS-related medications which require a rigid schedule of doses and time-lapses between pills. One of the battles is that Africans (and i make a huge generality...but anyone who has been there certainly knows this generalization to be a relatively legit one!) do not wear watches, nor to do they obey the "laws" of time.
There's no way to wrap up this particular entry...as I just find myself caught in the battle of what should be altered and what should be preserved.

When a Rose Blooms in a Concrete Jungle

2007-02-13T22:33:00.000+01:00

I have known Obadyah for 8 years now...and insomuch as I've grown since 1999, it never ceases to amaze me how far he too has come in just those 8 years. Make no mistake, the man is still militant to the core, but I feel blessed to have experienced the other dimensions of him. When I saw him in January, he told me about how he was invited to give a speech to his fellow inmates at the Kwanza celebration in December. He's already received letters and requests for advice and guidance from several prisoners...and as much as he served as a mentor to me, I know those who reach out to him are in good hands. So I want to share this one dimension of Obadyah with anybody who wants to read the following parts of his speech.

"...Kwanzaa isn't just a time of year whereby we come together to validate our culture, reinforce each other az belonging to an extended storied people and legacy...It's also, and most importantly, a time or reweighing and remeasuring self. A time to assess Our progress.
"The foundation of Gwanza is the Nguzo Saba, the seven principles of Blackness. The operature word is principle, which means a rule or a code of conduct. Our principles are determined by Our state of mind. So it's safe to say that if we are living unhealthy lifestyles it is because we are being guided by unhealthy states of mind.
"...I've been here long enough to remember a time when consciousness, self respect, and a genuine unity was more the rule than the exception. A time when no matter the religious or social affiliation We worked collectively to see to it that Our conduct did not negatively impact an environment meanto to exacerbate negativity. In spite of being in prison We cultivated character and principle because our state of mind was that 'where we were' does not determine 'who we are'!
"Today, things are 180 degrees opposite. Respect has waned, and the social influences that were at one time the myth of early nineties rap videos are now a thing of reality manifest in this general prison population...
"Suffice it to say, this ain't no rap video; this ain't the hood; the death sentence that i had, and those i've seen carried out are real! That life sentence, those hundred years, and those multiple decades the kourt handed down to my brothaz here are real! And to accept this is to accept a condition of slavery! Not a slave because someone else says so but because Our state of being reflects it. And that signifies that Our minds have accepted it!
"When properly applied, the Nguzo Saba are the seeds which we cultivate and nurture mentally so that Our actions are the fruits thereof. And when individuals come together to celebrate the principles of Kwanzaa, having applied them, then the colective is exponentially stronger.
"The scroll intimates that 'the truth will set us free.' It is the genesis of healing and growth. It will aid us in the governance of self and enable us to unify, be self-determined, work collectively and assume responsibility, pool our resources to accomplish a purpose, use our creativity to create and not destroy, and to call upon Our faith to assure our paths are correct.
"It is time for us to grow up Brothaz. Time for us to abandon the leisure life of the Black Boy and begin building our foundations az Black Men. Time to start being respect instead of, ostensibly, seeking it from without...We need to strive to be better individuals yearly. Each Kwanzaa celebration should be transcendental in that We continue to grow, thus growing the collective. Many of us have children and if we don't grow up...they will inherit that legacy from us...Somebody must break the cycle. Why not us?
"We exemplify greatness in abundance at times without effort. Imagine what a sustained effort will bring about. I pray these words will sit upon the spirits intended. Our resurrection is possible! Make this Kwanzaa the last Kwanzaa we are less than what we should be, doing less than we could be. With much love, i depart in peace."

Immigration thoughts...

2007-02-04T15:31:00.000+01:00

It's no secret--internationally or within these borders--that France has a lot of problems with its immigrant population. During the 1900s, the first large wave of immigrants came in the 50s during the post-war boom. These immigrants were Europeans coming primarily from Italy, followed by those from Spain, Poland, and Russia. They worked in factories and were the target of discrimination at that time. During this time the French government built the first of their "HLM" (habitation de loyer modérée=low-rent housing) for this population. But the 60's saw the French loss of their north-African colonies--Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia--and many French who had been living in these colonies returned to France. While Morocco and Tunisia won their independence without a war, Algeria was a under the French strangle-hold of a colonial system that France was intent on keeping (not surprisingly, also among the world's top five oil and natural gas producing countries). Algeria was designed to be a "little France" across the Mediterranean; the government was run by all French officials, and France's colonization approach of "intregrationism" meant that the language, education, arts, government, and even architecture were all "French" in nature. Yet while the Algerians were to be "incorporated" into the French empire, a huge divide existed between the French in Algeria and the "indigènes"--natives, literally, who were not citizens but "subjects," thereby not entitled to the same rights or civil liberties. Additionally, the cultures just didn't mix. On one hand you had the French intellectuals in their grand houses with large vineyards, demanding secularism and espousing "liberté, égalité, et fraternité"; on the other hand, the Algerians were of a nomadic, Muslim, traditional culture of farmers and herders. The cultures were completely different, and there was a definite choc des civilisations. The entire history of France in Algeria (1830-1962) is particularly bloody, and the independence war was no different, and when the Algerians finally won, the French were forced out of the country by the new government.

The French government intervened enormously to aid their returned countrymen: helped them find work, apartments, education for their children, etc. This was not the case for the second large wave of immigrant factory workers: those from North Africa (primarily Algeria). From the late 50's to '74, France experienced a large economic boom, requiring another huge importation of workers in the 60's and 70's, and the Algerian men arrived to fill those positions. Since they came without their families, in 1974 France passed a law, Regroupement Familial, which authorized the arrival of the worker's wives and children. But the government did little to prepare for this opening of their borders. (Just to clarify, when these immigrants arrived, their visas and identity cards were all stamped with the word "indigène"--a system that carried over from the colony and continued to deny these immigrants citizenship and all that came with it.) Because there was insufficient housing for all these immigrants, shanty-towns sprung up all around the outskirts of the cities where the workers were employed. The government then very quickly put up more HLMs where the immigrant families were moved to when the shanty-towns were razed.

Just taking Paris as one example, the "civil unrest" that occurred a year ago took place in the banlieu, suburbs where the HLMs exist. The population living in the HLMs is still primarily from the former colonies. Kids born in France are French, but their parents are from the "indigène" system. And in France there are so many ways in which this great divide is still evident. These kids grow up speaking Arabic at home and French in school; they aren't Algerian or Moroccan or Sénégalese, but they aren't accepted as truly French either; they still take trips back to Africa to visit their grandparents; their mothers make couscous and cover their heads; they are seeking acceptance to a system that fought so hard to keep them under the French "pied-noir" (black boot...a term referring to the colonists who lived in Algeria); it's no wonder all the French rap comes from the banlieus; they are Muslim and do "sawm"--Ramadan--but rarely go to the mosqué; they smoke and drink when with their French friends, but would never let their parents know they break such rules; their names always give them away.

From North Africa and the Middle East, a Jew, Christian, and Muslim could all have the same name--Mustapha al-Mamoun--but only Muslims refuse to change their names to fit a different culture. This is obvious just looking at the writers' names from these countries: Ismael Ait-Djefar, Kateb Yacine, Assia Djebar, Tahar Ben Jelloun...and then Albert Memmi. Albert is a French name. And he's a Jew from Tunisia. Yeap, he speaks Arabic, yeap his family has lived alongside the Muslims and Christians and Coptes...but his family gave him a French name. Without fail, there is always a way to tell. And that has made discrimination very easy...and very obvious.

Some perspectives want to target Islam as the biggest reason that France's immigrants don't integrate as well as, for example, the Mexicans in America who are primarily Catholic. One organization, "The Middle East Forum: Promoting American Interests" even voices an opinion that, unfortunately, many wouldn't even see as radical: "American minority groups share many basic values with the rest of the country; in contrast, French minority groups tend to have alien values, to think of themselves as a new nation, and even to have hopes of superseding the present Judeo-Christian nation of France." But this morning at the news kiosk, I bought one of France's Le Monde newspaper's publications: Le Monde des Religions. It's a publications series they are doing on 20 keys to understanding the world's main religions. They've already done Christianity, Judaism, and the religions of Ancient Egypt. This month it's Islam. On French radio, you can find 2 Arabe music stations, 1 West-African station, and 2 Caribbean stations. The French "diaspora" is large...and diverse...and I've not even mentioned the French presence in Asia, North, or South America. And for such a little country, it's no surprise that they're struggling in their post-colonial position of now being the hub of immigration for those leaving France's former colonies. Islam is not the problem. A country can't invade another country and expect not to have lasting effects that, eventually, will manifest on their own soil. Interestingly and thankfully, there is an effort here that involves a solid base of teaching, learning, AND preservation.

African Texts

2007-01-24T22:03:00.000+01:00

When Josh and I had lunch while I was home, he asked me to give him the names of some well-known African authors so he could find and read some African texts. I finally started writing some stuff down...then I went a little crazy. But I decided it was a good list to post. Enjoy!!

Key:
** Books I've read and recommend
* Books by authors I've read, but not this particular text
Boooks by recommended, well-known authors

Books originally in English :
**Chinue Achebe (Nigeria) : Things Fall Apart (the most classic African text…ever !)
**Buchi Emecheta (Nigeria) : The Joys of Motherhood (a very interesting commentary on the practice of polygamy)
**Tsitsi Dengaremba (Zimbabwe) : Nervous Conditions
*JM Coetzee (South Africa) : The Life and Times of Michael K.; Disgrace
*Wole Soyinka (Nigeria) : Death and the King’s Horsemen; Ake : The Years of Childhood (nonfiction) (remember him being a rather complex writer)
Ngugi wa Thiang’o (Kenya) : Grain of Wheat (always meant to read this one…!)
Naguib Mahfouz (Egypt) : The Cairo Trilogy (African Noble Laureate)
Nadine Gordimer (South Africa) : Burgher’s Daughter (African Noble Laureate)
**Amos Tutuola (Nigeria) : The Palm-wine Drinkard (a classic comedy piece)
Alan Paton (South Africa) : Cry the Beloved Country
Chenjerai Hove (Zimbabze) : Bones

Books originally in French…I gave the English-translated title where I know it exists. Those written in French include my "translation" of the title, yet I’m not sure that a translated text exists
**Mariama Bâ (Senegal) : So Long a Letter
*Assia Djebar (Algeria) : Algerian White (she’s the only non-French born citizen in the Academie Nationale, the governing body responsible for maintaining the integrity of the French language)
**Franz Fanon (Martinique) : Black Skin, White Masks; The Damned of the Earth (both nonfiction)
**Ahmadou Kourouma (Ivory Coast) : Les Soleils des Indépendances; Allah n’est pas obligé (both fantastic! Maybe translated, The Independent Sun, and Allah is not Obliged…the second is about child soldiers in the civil war in the Ivory Coast)
*Albert Memi (Tunisia) : Portrait du Colonisé suivi de portrait du colonisateur (Portrait of the colonized followed by the portrait of the colonizer)
**Azouz Begag (born in France to Algerian immigrant parents) : Le gone du Chaâba (The kid of the Chaâba)
**Tahar Ben Jelloun (Marocco) : La nuit sacrée (The Sacred Night)

Le Chalet

2007-01-21T16:01:00.000+01:00

"Chalet rue St. Denis" has been re-designed...at least re-arranged, making possible sing-alongs and Les Miserablés interpretive dance sessions. So we did. And luckily, I think my only neighbors are away for the weekend. If it wasn't Javert, it was George Michael.

Antoinette

2007-01-21T15:15:00.000+01:00

Toast, Milk and Honey, Damon Avenue and Mill Street, Wicker Park corners the market on great breakfasts but DeO'Mallys pizza can hold its own next to antique shops and Antoinette in downtown Plymouth. Nowhere else are the stars more plentiful than Sportsman's Lane, the sound of seagulls more soothing than Prospect Avenue, and nothing compares to the feel of my grandma's soft yet bony hand grasping mine. As much as I love the kiss on each cheek, the hug is home and lasts long enough to hold in or let go of tears.

With cousins, aunts and uncles, friends, brothers, parents, I always compose a menu much too large for what's possible to enjoyably digest when I go home. And I still feel guilty about people I didn't call or see or see again...and maybe that will continue to be a dilema as long as I live outside the country, but I simply didn't want to trade one minute of knitting with Leah in front of the roaring fire at my mom and Paul's house. I wouldn't have traded discussing with Josh the status of our hearts in relation to Africa, coming to conclusions about the future of butchers and bakers with Molly and Jon, debating the Middle East with dad, or accompanying my mom to her office and running fun errands with no regard to the time. There's always next time.

Mon quartier

2007-01-19T18:31:00.000+01:00

On first day back in Paris, I crashed on my bed for an hour after getting home from the airport. Because it was so mild, I a window open and fell asleep to the sounds on rue St. Denis....trucks and high heels clacking and clothing carts rolling across the cobblestone street. It sounded foreign, and like every time I return from the States, I feel like I don't belong; I know I am foreign, I feel out of place. I needed to venture out and reacquaint myself. Instead of walking the cute and Frenchie rue Montorgueil, I just went straight down St. Denis. It may be the "red light" street, but it's my street. While I've passed the same man who stands outside one of the peep show on my side of the street nearly every single morning going to class, I've never spoken with him. But on that day, he looked at me, smiled, said, "Bonjour", and I returned it with "Bonne annnée" (happy new year.....the imperative first greeting after the new year has commenced). He wished me good health (the second imperative in this round of one-time-a-year greetings) and I wished him the same. Then a few days ago I went into the African bookstore just 2 blocks away. The owner is an older man from the Ivory Coast, and we spoke one other time when he invited me to come back on the Sunday of that week. Now that was a solid 4 weeks ago, but when I walked in, he knew me, even though he couldn't remember my name, and said he was looking for me that Sunday when I never showed up. Little did I think my presence--or lack thereof--would even be noticed! He helped me choose two books for my friend Molly....pointed out several events--author speakings, discussions, etc. that would be going on. Then he poured me a glass of fresh hibiscus juice. It was as thick as apple cider and a dark purple-red color. And it was delicious. He said another Ivorienne imported all kinds of fresh plants and fruits from Africa, and she made the juices. He then had me try a juice made just from ginger, lemon, and a little sugar. We spoke some more about literature and then I paid for my books (on which he gave me a discount), and he wished me a good day and said he hoped I'd come in the evening some week to hang out at the tables where people convene for coffee, juice and discussion. And then today I went to a store just down the street that carries everything imported from India. I bought a small end table from them over a year ago, a glass-paneled kitchen cabinet, and some Christmas presents. The guy who works there has always delivered my things, and we've talked about the time he spent in Martinique, India, and my studies. The last two times I've walked out of there not only with discounts on my purchases but also with packets of incense, little wooden boxes, or anything else he sees to give me. So today I went in to find a coffee table that will also serve for eating on (currently I sit on the floor and eat on my lap, but since rearranging my apartment, I now have more than enough room for a decent sized table to eat on by sitting on cushions on the floor). I told him what I wanted and he told me he had something to show me if I could wait 5 minutes. He ended up taking me to another nearby store (these are all located in one of the "galleries", the beautiful, old, original/first "malls" of covered shops in Paris) to show me the first table. It was great...but he said I had to see the second. So we went through a completely second jewelry store, through a door, and downstairs into a basement storage room. There he uncovered an old, turquoise blue table that was the perfect size. It had heavy layers of wax coating on it, slightly altering the color, so he got a bucket of warm soapy water and scrubbed away the wax on one corner to show me the layers of brown, green, and turquoise that reveal the true nature of the table. Another guy was down there, and all three of us were squatting around this table talking about it....and he told me the price, altered it....and then said I could come back when he was finished working (I have to leave in 30 minutes, in fact!!) and he'll help me carry it back to my apartment. When he took down my mobile number just in case it wouldn't be ready, he even knew my name.

It didn't take long to stop feeling like a foreigner here. The second night back, I got together with all the girls in the café...saw all the guys....and since then we've all hung out numerous times...planned and celebrated our friend Laetitia's 30th birthday last night....I have another birthday party tonight, and then all the girls are coming to my apartment on Saturday night for "cocktails" and then dinner in my neighborhood. But besides my friends, who always remind me that I do belong, it's nice to know there are others who I wouldn't even expect to make my neighborhood so very much mon quartier. Even this evening, when I passed the peep show again, the guy not only said hello, but mentioned that I had been gone for a long time. 15 days? 3 weeks? He's observant. So we chatted about Christmas and what I'm doing in Paris...and then wished each other good evenings. On this street, it certainly can't hurt to have him in my corner!

Another Sunday

2006-12-10T11:29:00.000+01:00

I couldn't wait to get home and blog. There have been so many reasons to write lately, but as my plate has been overflowing with research papers on the Middle East and Palestine and a French-Algerian novel....I just haven't taken the time to blog! But as I sit here enjoying my sunday breakfast of a croissant and demi-baguette...with jam and butter and coffee, I just want to deviate from the painstakingly-long process of writing in French and just do something light. Besides, I had an incredible past 24 hours.

modern art museum, at least here I'm waiting indoors. But it's worth it. Inside are huge wooden tables with enormous wooden chairs, lights at each place. Rows and rows of books, deep red carpet, windows that look into the "forest" that is in the middle of the massive glancing at my computer screen. He got up to take a break, and I noticed that I'd received text messages from Edith and Molly, so I too left not too long after, just taking my computer and my phone. I walked out of the "Let me start with yesterday. I went out to the big national library with the goal of starting and finishing a paper that's due this week. As with any library here on the weekends, you have to wait in a queue to enter. But compared to the big public library in the Centre Pompidourectangular architectural design of this library. It's quiet, it's serious, you have to swipe a card to enter and exit...and unlike the Pompidou library, there are no periodic announcements about watching your bag for pickpockets who operate in the library! Anyhow, halfway through my time there the person next to me left and a guy came and sat down. We never spoke, but I noticed that he kept looking at the novel I was writing about. At one point he got up for a break, and shortly after I noticed that I'd missed texts from Edith and Molly. I left the "salle de lecture" and stepped out into the corridor to make my phone calls, and I noticed him sitting on a chair not too far from me. Since I didn't reach either of the girls and told them to call me back, it just seemed natural to walk over and sit next to him and exchange the common greeting of "Ca va?" He wanted to talk about the book...as the story is, he said, his life. The story is about a boy born in France to Algerian immigrant parents, his father came to France in the 60s when the booming French industry sector needed "main d'oeuvres" (man-power). He grows up in the subsidised housing....and he's successful in school, but this only serves to alienate him from his Arabe friends and yet doesn't necessarily guarantee him access or acceptance as a French kid. He's neither Arabe nor French. Anyhow we start speaking about the theme of my paper--initiation--and then he wants to read what I've written....which feels a little bit strange because I'm never too confident with my French writing and also I don't know if he's going to find aspects of it to be critical of his culture. But since he knows the book...I let him read my paper. He helps me make some corrections...then the library is turning off lights and making an announcement that it's closing, so we go back in the room to collect our stuff and walk out together. He suggests we go to a bar near the library if I want him to continue helping me make corrections....and end up talking about everything from relations between Arabe women to the circumcision ceremony that Muslim boys go through when they are 7-10 years old. We actually live only 4 blocks apart and use the same métro stop...and so we exchanged numbers and said we'd meet up another time after my exams are finished to take a drink or something to eat in the quartier.

Then this morning I got up and went out onto rue Montorgueil, my main street and where all the markets and butchers and bakers and cheese people are going strong Sunday until 1:00 but then they don't open again until Tuesday morning. And I've come to refuse buying my produce anywhere other than the markets....so Sunday morning becomes a necessary shopping time. I started at the butcher, buying chicken and duck. Went to the produce stand for apples and kiwis, garlic and chives and tomatoes, peppers, onions and even some baby potatoes that I had to brush dirt off of. One of the young women who works there with a piercing in her lip is always really nice to me and sometimes just doesn't charge me for my fresh herbs. One day I paid and was so frazzled with getting my change back in my wallet, putting on my gloves and gathering my purse that I left the bag of produce sitting at the check out. She ran out in the street to hand me my bulging plastic bag of 10 euros worth of veggies! Then I bought olive oil at the olive store, and went to the "quainquallerie" (hardware store) for a light bulb. I was trying to figure out if the one I had in my hand was too big when I just dropped the box on the floor. "Ooh La La!' the young man laughed when I saw me bending down to pick it up. This same guy is in there each time I go, and he's always so nice and helpful, always joking with me about something dealing with nails or...in this case, the light bulb. Anyhow, he takes the box from me to see if it's broken, which it's not, but then he screws it in to a panel of outlets and light-bulb sockets mounted on the wall. And it doesn't work. All I'm thinking is, "You break it, You buy it!!" But amidst my apologies for clumsiness, he tells me "ca n'est pas grave" (it's not serious) and hands me a new one. The woman at the cash register isn't sure if it's 2 or 3 euros....I told her I thought it was 3...she hollers to the man....he confirms it's only 2. I know it was 3. I add that to my big shoulder bag and head for the bakery. The bread queues on Sunday make me think of Russia...but I get in line and the women there are all smiles, serving up croissants and pain au chocolates, baguettes raison and eclairs. Then I head to Starbucks. Always my last stop before heading home. The girls who work there are also super friendly...but this one in particular starts talking to me about Christmas shopping and stores that are open on Sundays now until the holidays...her creative gift ideas. She charges me for the most petit coffee even though I order the grande, saying she likes when I come in because I'm always in "bon humeur" (good spirits). We laugh about our mutual enjoyment for each others' spirits...continue chatting while I put some cream in my coffee...and say goodbye and "bon journée" about 4 times before I step back out onto the street.

It's just incredible how connected one can feel here. I know, with all the work I have to do, that I won't see any friends today. I didn't yesterday or Friday either! We'd made plans both days, but everyone has just been too busy or just too tired. And it's okay. But I just marvel at how I don't feel alone. How a one-hour morning shopping trip includes all kinds of friendly interactions...and that didn't even include going to any of the places where people actually know me by name!

A different kind of Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T23:02:00.000+01:00

Why the heck is this man on my Thanksgiving page!? What I'm wondering is how it's possible that everything aligned the way it did that I'm spending my Thanksgiving day researching and writing a paper on Turkey (the country!)?? Not basting a turkey, not eating a turkey, not falling asleep because that's what too much turkey does to one's body....but writing about the damed country named after the bird I should be feasting on!

So this is Mustafa Kemal, better known as Anatürk, the founder of modern, secular, independent Turkey as we know it today. That hat? Interestingly (or not....) he banned them (as well as veils/headscarves for women), only allowing for "western-style" hats having brims...as a sign of Turkey's break from its archaic Ottoman past and emergence into the western European world.

And that's just the tip of the iceburg. So here's my Thanksgiving toast to Turkey....as this year will be remembered.

To keep the ball rolling...

2006-11-09T22:00:00.000+01:00

And to keep the parallel's rolling, here's one more. This past summer when Leah and I were standing in the Travel Bookstore in Knotting Hill (yes, the one from the movie), they had a special display of African texts. I stood there, looked through many of them, and wrote down just three titles that I've heard of numerous times in the past and wanted to remember to pick up at some point. Two of them were by Frantz Fanon: Black Skin White Masks and The Wretched of the Earth. Tonight I walked all the way down to the Les Halles Starbucks to get a mocha for a night of reading my Maghreb homework, and after a brisk walk and my drink of choice, I lit my candles and opened my Maghreb livret of texts. My homework: Frantz Fanon, Les damnés de la terre. The second title I'd written down (I even pulled out my journal to confirm!!). So now I'm all set, dictionaries ready, and although it's already 10:00 pm, I've got at least a couple hours of reading in me before bedtime!!

No Rhyme or Reason

2006-11-09T18:40:00.000+01:00

And when it rains...

I'm going to start with all the good stuff. I'm running into parallels everywhere. In a lecture last week we talked about Ashkènage Jews and Sépharade Jews (I don't know if those are the same titles in English)...Sépharade Jews moved to North Africa and some into the Middle East in the same year that Columbus sailed the ocean blue (1492) when they were expelled from Spain due to the inquisition. Then Sunday's NY Times had a story about Spain finally recognizing and attempting to uncover their Jewish history (not to mention their huge Arabe history which contributes to some of the most beautiful architecture in Spain today). Last weekend I went to the Musée de Quai Branly, the brand-new museum here dedicated to the art (or are they artifacts?) of Africa, Asia, Oceania, et the Americas. I was so excited to go...and even more thrilled that it was for a class in which I had driving questions to ponder while walking around. Well, it turns out I was hugely disappointed, even disturbed, by the removal of items utilitarian and spiritual, that were displayed in glass boxes, ceremonial masks mounted on black rods against stark black backgrounds, like prizes of domination, especially knowing that nearly all of these items were brought to France throughout its conquests of foreign "barbarous" lands during the years of colonialism. Really, there were only a few items from places NOT once occupied by the French. The lighting was really dark and the setting ultra-modern, the building, beautifully landscaped outside, had plant mirages on the metal windows which blocked the natural light and instead just made a mockery of the natural elements by which each item was initially inspired and used within. Additionally, everything was so close in proximity that you could never get a good view of an item without catching your own or somebody else's reflexion in the glass case; I was constantly squinting and trying to look past my face to appreciate what was being "protected" inside of the box. No benches, no place for sitting and reflecting. But, I wasn't sure to what extent my scathing reaction (and subsequent essay) was justified until (I'm coming back to parallels) I met this French Canadian last week sitting in Starbucks. He's working on his doctorate in paleanthology at Tulane and happened to be in Paris doing research at the Musée de l'homme (Museum of man). I asked him if he could take me through the museum so I'd be able to fully appreciate it, so last Saturday we went. Before we even entered, however, he started talking about how Jacques Chirac "stole" the entire second floor to put in his own museum. The Musée de Quai Branly. Vance (the paleanthologist) was livid talking about how, from an anthropological perspective, this was a complete injustice to every piece, since they weren't designed to be art for the sake of art. Yes they are beautiful and intricate and creative, but they weren't created to be gazed upon the way "art" is created. The removal from context-setting....because at the Musée de l'homme each piece was grouped, not just geographically but functionally, with explanations and historical information on their purpose within each society from which they were derived (to put it nicely). Just interesting that I'd run into this expert when I was pondering these very thoughts. Another parallel: I happened to see a poster in the metro yesterday about a month-long consortium involving Toni Morrison at the Louvre. Turns out that she's only involved in 3 or 4 lectures, one of which was 3 nights ago, but the second of which was last night. I walked 10 minutes to the Louvre and bought a ticket for 1 euro 50 centimes and got to sit for 2 hours and listen to one of my most long-term favorite authors contribute to a discussion of making a foreign land your home. I couldn't stop smiling (and taking notes....some of which I'll share later) AND it turns out that next Saturday the lecture she's doing is with about 5 other authors, all from former French colonies. And it turns out that one author, an Algerian woman named Assia Djebar, is somebody I've been reading and studying (and loving!) in my Francophone literature class.

But on the flipside of all that's been amazing, I have a good friend here who just lost her younger brother. His death was completely unexpected and violent, and it has affected the entire "café community". Thankfully we've all had each other, as we all knew him and spent time with him (though he lived in London, he came to Paris regularily)...and so last week we all met up at the café nearly every night, mainly because nobody wanted to be alone. His funeral was here in Paris on Tuesday, and things are returning to a slightly more normal state now. But crisis certainly does bring people together, and I guess the blessing is that we've all grown closer in making sure Stephanie has the support she needs.

Strangers only once

2006-10-29T20:52:00.000+01:00

Two things have amazed me today. First, nobody can place my nationality, due to some ambiguous accent I have when speaking French, and second, I've said it before but today was a true testament to this: people are amazingly friendly here!

I usually spend my entire Sundays completely alone, and I have absolutely no problem with it. Usually I go out with friends Friday and Saturday nights, and I am perfectly content to have Sunday to myself--studying, calling home, going to the market and doing some cleaning. That about sums up my Sundays! So today I started my morning at the laundromat with with my entire bed thrown in a big blue Ikea bag--pillowcases, matress cover, blanket, sheets, and even my bedspread. And blankie. When I arrived, the woman who sometimes works there recognized me right away and hooked me up with a larger machine for the price of a smaller one...perhaps because last time I let her use some detergent. Then I went to the cafe on the corner of my street for breakfast while everything was washing. I talked to the guy who works there nearly every morning during the week. He is the one who told me a few weeks ago that everyone in the café thought I was Australian! I returned to the laudromat and put everything in the dryer. Now at this particular "laverie" there are only 4 good dryers, although there are 31 washing machines. On a Sunday early afternoon, this made for quite a back-up. Luckily I beat the rush. But I knew I couldn't leave and risk having my machine stop in my absence while people were queued up. So I had my literature reading along, took it out and started reading when in walks a guy by the name of Eric who I met in that laundromat at least 2 months ago (and haven't run into since). He saw me and instantly gave me a kiss kiss...asked how my program was going, remembered I was from Chicago, introduced me to his friend, another kiss kiss....we laughed and talked and then he left. Waiting, reading. Then I started folding my stuff and there were two men waiting who were speaking a language that wasn't French. The one guy who had a big silver medallion of Africa around his neck asked me if I spoke Sénégalese. Nope....and the other asked if I was British. Nope. Italian? Spanish? Absolutely not. I said I was Américaine. "Aaaaahhhhhh, Les Etats-Unis! New York, Boston, Washington?" And inevitably when I said Chicago (it's just easier than Wisconsin!), "Aaaaahhhh, Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan!" Yes yes, that man made a huge world-wide impression... So we're chatting it up about Sénégal and and Paris and Chicago, they're saying how people in Paris are so unfriendly, how nobody talks to each other....and I'm just marvelling at the number of times I've heard people say that, yet each time it's in a completely random conversation with strangers, and clearly we're all openly engaged with each other! We all exchange names and "à la prochaine!"s with each other (see you next time!) as I walk out the door.

Then tonight I took a break from the paper I'm working on and went to a restaurant for dinner, and despite it being right across from the corner café, I've only ventured in there twice. So I thought it would be a good change. I walked in and the waiter who greeted me acted like we knew each other...was asking me how I was doing, how my day passed... I sat down, and of course with tables all pushed up next to each other, there was a guy and two girls right next to me. When I ordered, the man turned to me and asked me if I was German! I almost laughed aloud....but said no, Je suis américaine, and asked him why. My accent. He thought it was German. But then we proceeded to talk until my dinner arrived....and during my entire dinner....and it turns out that he lived in Washington DC and was a French ambassador, he has a friend at UW Madison, he ran the Chicago marathon and loves Chicago....and he lives in my quartier. He introduced me to the two girls who were, incidentally, both German (clearly that's why he knew the German accent when speaking French). When he got up to leave, he asked if I'd give him my number, that it was always nice to know people in the neighborhood and that he's been wanting to have a soirée and when he did he'd give me a call. We said goodbyes, and I resumed my eating. Then the waiter came back over, asked me what I had been reading earlier, what I thought about it....what I was studying. Then one of the two girls started asking me about my program because, in fact, she lived on the same street as my school. And then it turns out that one of them did her undergrad and master's at U. of Chicago....so we had all kinds of things to discuss. They had to leave, we said our goodbyes and mentioned possibly running into each other again. While paying, the waiter asked if I lived in the neighborhood, said surely we'd greet each other next time I passed in the street (of course, right?!)...I paid and then was saying my own goodbyes walking out the door.

Increadible, really. It didn't even feel like I spent this day alone.

Just a taste

2006-10-27T20:42:00.000+02:00

I'm finally figuring out this .Mac account I have! I've failed on the photos, but I have managed to provide access to a paper I just wrote. This was for my history class on the Maghreb and Muslum World. We've been studying the French domination in Algérie (colony) and Maroc and Tunisie (protectorats). While I have written numerous papers, this one was the first that required research and was more than just my ideas or interpretations of something. I loved doing it!!

I just finished 2 midterms this past week along with this paper and one other. I have to say that it was crazy but in such an exillerating way. This week calms down a bit....and I am thankful because I've contracted a cold which I just need to get rid of ASAP.

Okay, I will keep adding work to this link, and I think you can just download them if you want to have a look (and then move them promptly to the trash, most likely!).

paste this website into your browser address bar OR just click on the title of this blog engry "Just a Taste"
http://homepage.mac.com/amandagentine/MesDevoirs/FileSharing5.html

Camus

2006-10-20T00:20:00.000+02:00

"Always go too far, because that is where you'll find the truth."
--Albert Camus

Right now I'm working on (or taking a break from) an analysis of a historical text written by Albert Camus. He was born en l'Algérie (to colonial parents...making him French, not Algérien), but the 27 years he spent there, working as a journalist for some time, greatly influenced his works and his philosophie. There is so much more I want to share...but right now I'll leave it at this quote.

1 rue Saint Sauveur

2006-10-13T14:52:00.000+02:00

Finally....I have updated photos of my apartment. When I returned in August I painted the kitchen before I even called the majority of my friends. The plywood was so hideous, and overall, as you can see, there's more than enough wood! While so much of what's mine is still in a storage unit in Plymouth, I do feel like my space is now a reflection of my personality, my travels, and my experiences. My friends call it the log cabin. Or lake house. Or chalet. They all work. It's cozy, it's eclectic, it always smells like incense, and I love it!

Urban Yardsales

2006-10-10T21:51:00.000+02:00

There's a lot of old stuff floating around Paris, and people love to recycle and re-use anything. Afterall, some of the stuff actually dates way back to times of different regimes and republics! The other weekend, I woke up on Saturday to find my street packed with people milling around sidewalks filled with people's old stuff. Racks of coats, trunks of sweaters and boots, tables of saucers and vases and old toasters and tea kettles. Rugs and toys and books and belts. You name it, you could find it. I walked to the church I sometimes go to for reflection, only to encounter another yard sale set up in the courtyard in front of the church. It wasn't maybe a moment for reflection, but I did find an old silver desklamp.

Being in the System never felt so Good

2006-10-10T19:16:00.000+02:00

Just when I was sitting down to pull together Jon and Molly's wedding photos....I had written a fairly long text....and I'd even created a mac web-page with a link to take you to the pictures I'd uploaded with captions....that's when my computer started it's decent into eventual oblivion. Yes...it was a Sunday afternoon, about a month ago now. The entire crash occurred that night, and when I took it to a compuater shop, I learned that my entire hard-drive had failed and that all data was unrecoverable! The good news is that I received my computer back as if it arrived straight from the factory (short of the scratched-screen reminder that it's not actually new). Clearly, the bad news is that I lost everything--my music, all my photos, my documents (journal entries included...), software programs....etc. etc. I luckily backed most of this stuff up on an external drive this summer....but faced with tough decisions of returning to Paris with extra items for decorating my apartment OR the hard-drive (as the suitcases were tight!)....I of course left the hard-drive in Leah's backseat when she dropped me off at O'Hare. All of this is to say....(whew!) that the blogging has been less than inspiring when everything I wanted to "catch up" on is now without photos, without the writing I'd already done.... Solution: just don't blog.

But....today is one of those days that I want to share with the world! I actually smiled the entire metro ride home...the entire time I bought my produce and chicken for dinner....the rest of the walk home in the somehow warmer-than-it-has-been-all-day air. There's a jazz trio playing on the corner of my street and Montorgueil that I can still here now sitting on my bed with my window open.

Today was amazing because between yesterday and today, I've officially survived my first run with the French university system. I've got 5 classes total: 4 at my program's center, 1 at the Sorbonne. I've been loving my classes through my program, with the exception of one. So I dropped it last Thursday and enrolled through the Sorbonne to take my final class, and it's a history class on the Middle East of the 20th century (although, just 1908--1948). It's an amazing complement to my other history class on the Maghreb (ie--former French colonies in North Africa) and the Muslum world.

So....with most of these classes at the Sorbonne, there's a lecture by the professor and the "driven work" (literal translation) session (TD), twice as long, with an assistant-professor. Since I missed my first lecture, I actually started Monday with my TD. I had written down that it started at 15:00....and unfortunately it's in a building on the furthest north side of the city. Let me just explain this situation. There's one metro line that runs pretty directly from the northern-most porte of the city to the southern-most porte of the city. It's 25 stops altogether, lasting about 45 minutes. My program is the 3rd from the last stop on the south end; this Sorbonne building is the very end of the line on the north side. So....needless to say with only one hour between the end of one class and the start of the Sorbonne TD, I was rushing like crazy...didn't know where I was going and found out I was walking in the wrong direction...arrived at the building and luckily a man directed me to the salle...and I went flying in the door. And I was met with about 50 staring faces. I appologized for being late and struggled to find a seat...but the professor was asking me questions, rattling off course numbers that, even if I had understood them in her speedy French I still wouldn't know which one was mine....so I stumbled through futher "I don't knows"s and "I'm sorry"s...until I finally asked when the course started. She said it started 90 minutes ago...and we both realized at the same time that I was not late but "en avance". So I bowed my way out...went and got a coke and relaxed for the 30 more minutes that I had. The first order of business in the class, however, was choosing topics on which to present. I certainly wasn't among the first to volunteer, but halfway through I raised my had on the topic of "les transformations sociales à Amman dans les années 1940 d'après les souvenirs du romancier d'origine saoudienne"....and even though she didn't do it for anybody else up to that point, she assigned me the oral presentation on that topic, while the next volunteer was assigned the written presentation. Yes...so I will make an oral exposé about Amman, Jordan, to a room full of French students. I'm not even sure that I have the level of vocabulary to do it...and as I felt my heart racing at the thought of doing it, I was contemplating asking the girl if we could switch. But I then decided that I should and would be ready....that it will be a good challenge....and there's no reason I can't rehearse and rehearse until the cows come home!

Today I had my "course magistrate", the lecture....and I wish I had a video camera when I entered the building and waited for the ampitheater to release the students from the previous class. Everything felt so French. People were sitting all over the benches, steps, floors...and yes, people do look different....and then we all gathered in the crowded hall in front of two amphitheater entrances (which were also the exits, and as the two classes let out at the same time, I wondered how many people would perish if a fire were to break out) (these were Zimbabwe-type thoughts....and those which have taught me how to just let go). There was nothing at all fancy about the inside, with wooden planks full of graffiti stretching across the two halves of the room with an inseparable row of wooden fold-down chairs that squeaked when you put it down. And they were too far away from the "desk top" so you had to sit on the edge or feel too far back and relaxed. The professor had an overhead projector with maps, a pointer, and a microphone. She wore a black skirt-suit with a bright pink scarf....and an hour later it was over and I realized that there was only minor parts that I missed. I actually got it. And I handed in the information she wanted on a piece of paper, I asked the girl next to me a question about the dates on our maps, and I walked out of the building into the sunshine.

Unfortunately I had to get back on that train and ride it all the way back to my program....for one more class....then get back on it again and go home. But I didn't care. I figured all of this out on my own......and I'm not lost, and I'm not frustrated, and I'm not in over my head. I get it. Yeap, and I love it.

Agelessness

2006-09-08T18:58:00.000+02:00

The organizational side of my brain is still fighting the in-the-moment side which says I need to write about Paris here and now and not overly obsess that I still haven't documented the Summer Part II--time at home and, perhaps most importantly, Jon and Molly's wedding. I want to get back to that, but it's not what I want to write about now.

The back and forth of the two tones a siren makes here are drowning out the usual street noise of metal carts on wheels used to carry "prét-à-porter" (ready-made-clothes) rolling over the rock sidewalks. Van doors slide open and I can hear heavy cardboard boxes being pulled towards the open door and then dropped onto dollies (which are then rolled over the rock sidewalks). Because it is a pedestrian street outside my window (which is violated by cars much more frequently than the other parts of this quartier), the scooters, many with their silencers removed, like to cruise up and down this street, knowing they are unlikely to be dominated by vehicles. Paris is alive. This time is called "La Rentrée" a time when everybody returns from month-long holidays and resumes school and work. Everybody is rested, everybody is tan, everybody is ready to work and be back in the swing of things. And the streets are friendlier than at any other time I've experienced. I've met more strangers and had more nice conversations in the butcherie, at the laundromat, while buying my newspaper at the kiosk, and even just walking.

Yesterday I started school. Well, orientation. Classes start Monday. I've got a solid 8 years on just about everybody. While I felt awkward in the first hour or so when everybody was standing in a line waiting to get their passport photocopied (of course, had they just told us to bring a copy, there would've been all of 5 people needing the copier). People were striking up conversation, I was determined to just speak French (unfair of me, really), and people had a hard time "getting it" that I was finished with University, that I have already started a career, that I've been living here, that I am taking these classes for the credit. But at lunch I sat myself with two guys who work for the program, knowing they were closer to me in age. Two other girls joined us, and they turned out to be fantastic. It was a little strange sitting through a session on "cultural integration" and "safety in Paris" when this is the place I now call home, but once classes begin we'll be in the same boat.

My personal "rentrée" has felt perfectly normal. It felt good to reconnect with my girlfriends, to walk into the café and just feel at home, to be welcomed back by the cute guy behind the cheese counter and the bald man in the butcherie, to organize my apartment, to hang my Turkish tapestry and buy another plant, to paint my kitchen and call a repairman for the washing machine. I went out to Anne-Caroline and Fab's to see their new baby joy (Jules) and eat dinner with them, I bought a French keyboard in anticipation of my papers, I applied for my new residence permit, I'm getting a new phone line, finished a book and started a new one, have cooked dinners and gone to see movies. We all celebrated Molly's birthday, caught up on all the summer happenings with the girls, I met Theo for coffee, had drinks with Karina's friend who will also become my friend, met a new friend who I've been spending time with (and met his friends as a result), watched more futbol, and have plans to finally go see the Opéra Garnier (the old opera house where the ceiling is painted by Chegall).

I still don't have a television, and I haven't really missed it. The program director today was telling us to sieze Paris, to make it our own, to observe it and understand its people, to explore new quartiers and walk unknown routes. And although I've had these thoughts and done these things for myself over and over again, it was a good reminder for me. There is still so much left for me to discover, for me to see and do, and maybe being surrounded by 20-year olds will serve as a good energy boost to keep fitting in as much as I can while I'm here. Afterall, "La Rentrée" doesn't last forever, and the winter is sad and gray. But I have no reason to leave this city without seeing French theater or without tracking down one of the recent "bagettes of the year," no reason to never have seen the stained glass in St. Chappelle or gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Paris is still young for me. And I am still young in Paris.

Shamwaris

2006-08-04T21:11:00.000+02:00

It all started in Zimbabwe. We once walked in Chisumbange while the sun set over the plateau and talked about our “world tour,” how we were going to travel together no matter what paths our respective lives took. But things get in the way, lives become complicated and busy. So for the past five years, that pledge went unfulfilled. Until a major shake-up brought us all back together. And reminded each of us just how necessary this bond is. Something is forged in a life-changing setting like Zimbabwe, but the maintenance of this friendship is what makes it everlasting.

Stephanie, Leah and I spent eight wonderful days together, catching up on experiences both past and present, wandering and exploring, sitting and sipping, crying and laughing. Among other things. But instead of just narrating those 8 days, here’s a Top-10 List of amazing moments…and the pictures will tell the rest of the stories.
1. Hotel D'Aubusson Champagne time
2. "Allez Lew Bleus!"
3. Road Tripping to Le Tour de France
4. Longest-ever lunch at Montmartre
5. Versailles Picnic and Garden Walk
6. Afternoon Walk in the Rain
7. Brazilian Dinner and Hookah/Juice Bar P.Diddy Lounge Room
8. St. Denis Dance Party
9. Fourth of July Picnic Hopping
10. Tagines and Moroccan Friends

London, Italy, and St. Denis

2006-08-04T13:34:00.000+02:00

I couldn’t be more blessed to have a more wonderful best friend. But anybody reading this blog already knows how important Leah is to me. But the gobs of frosting on this cake are that Leah's job as a school social worker allows her to spend an entire month with me in Paris. This is her second summer in Paris, and while some aspects were the same, so much about this experience was so different than the last.

Leah’s time in Paris was non-stop, digging in and working hard then taking off to travel, to experience being in the middle of Europe. We zipped off for a long weekend in London to stay with her New Zealand friends, Scotty and John, who stayed with us in Paris last summer. Hyde Park and Finsberry Park, Middle-Eastern food and cider and World Cup madness, home-made breakfasts and kitchen dance parties. They were fantastic hosts!

I secured a new apartment before Leah arrived, and she stepped in and did what she’s now helped me do three times because I can’t seem to stay in the same place for long: pack, move, clean, and unpack. Since I just moved down the street, we dragged suitcases back and forth, scrubbed doors and floors and windows and walls, carted objects and furniture out to the sidewalk where they were quickly carried off by people in the streets while we watched from the window, waving at the dishwasher in the second-floor window across the street. Leah was a rockstar in the kitchen, transforming it from a curry-powder-stinking, grease-layered, old-dish stashed nightmare into a gleamingly-clean and highly organized place I actually want to cook in! Molly spent a day helping us move, Edith arrived at my apartment, raving about the wood, and all four of us crammed into my bathroom holding shelves, marking holes, securing brackets and using the power drill. Ran to a bar on St. Denis (yes, this is the really-not-so-bad "sex street") to get ice for Molly’s caipahinas, ate snacks, drank shots, played cards, listened to the World Cup on the radio, the cheers from goals missed and blocked echoing in the streets. We ran out for Chinese food and more tequila, encountered a full-on Brasilian party in the street, came back to eat, played spoons, and had a Les Miserables sing-along. Never once a pound on my wall. Just complete fun and laughter, Leah creating unforgettable bonds that had only briefly ever been set in motion but now felt like they’d gone back for years.

My memories are of our late-night dinners at Pain Quotidian, of Theo stopping over for the last time, of him getting us Starbucks while Leah cleaned the floor and I handled the kitchen countertop just minutes before my landlords walked in. Feeling so connected, so alive, so happy to be with my best friend in my environment, to have her experience my life with me and know exactly why I can’t come home, even when that means not being with her in Chicago.

Then there’s our trip to Italy. We took off, nobody being able to keep track of where we were going or for how long. Arriving in Napoli, finding our way to the Amalfi Coast, finding our convent/guest house in St. Agnello (next door to Sorrento), walking along the cliff coasts, eating proscuitto and melon, fresh mozzarella and hand-made pasta and pizza. Spending days on the pier on blue chairs looking out over the Mediterranean, jumping into the water to cool off, floating on the surface of the water from the intensity of the salt. An afternoon at Pompeii, Italian wine and a walk through touristy Sorrento. We moved to a different hotel where we were the only guests for the night, made friends with Antonio the owner who made us drinks, told us how to get to the closest (local fishing-village) beach where a woman went up to her house to get us towels when we arrived without them. We later ended up back in the village for dinner at the only open restaurant on a Sunday night, made friends with Paulo and Antonello at the table next to us, ended up swapping plates and sharing food and wine, going out for after-dinner drinks to the same pier we had laid out on earlier that day (it transforms into a bar at night!). On day three we took the ferry to the island of Capri where we found our B&B to be on the mountain side (Annacapri) and completely removed from anything touristy (or close walking distance, for that matter!). Again, ended up on a very local “beach” (without sand because it’s a rocky island) where people were cliff jumping into the water so clear I could see schools of fish swimming under my feet. We spent the afternoon at a private terrace where we could rent lounge chairs and towels, gazing out on the Mediterranean as the sun lowered. We had an amazing Italian dinner with a Caprese salad to start, since the Capri is the home of this wonderful plate. We had been warned that day that the following day there was going to be a strike on the island, but while we were told that transportation wouldn’t run, we were told that the beaches would be open. We wrongfully assumed this included the private beaches. So the next morning we made our 45-minute walk down the mountain to the beach only to find it closed. Well, there were people all over the rock steps in the cliff, but we had no towels or even a bottle of water (and it was HOT!). So I decided to make the trip back up the mountain on foot while Leah, because of her hip (smile), would stay there with our stuff. It took me over an hour to get back up, and I was completely wet from sweat. I had to stop at our B&B to shower off, then walked further into the little town to try to buy a bottle of water and maybe a sandwich (provisions!). But not a darned thing was open. The strike was intense! So I walked back to our place, took the towels from our room and bought a small bottle of water and began the decent. Almost 2 1/2 hours later I returned to the beach to find Leah hanging out on the private terrace beach with some guy. Turns out she had made friends (this came as no surprise!) while I was on my journey, and the guys who owned the private terrace invited her (and consequently me) to sneak onto the closed terrace. We ended up meeting the entire family and their friends, sharing a huge 18-person Italian lunch with them, complete with panninis, a tomato-mozzarella-olive-crouton goulash, and pitchers of sangria. Swimming, cliff diving (them, not us!), teaching them some English and learning some Italian, and thankfully accepted scooter rides back up the mountain to our B&B. Alexandro, Raphael, Maraccella, Vincenzo, So Italian, so amazing.

Can't be Concise after a 2-month Hiatus!

2006-08-03T16:15:00.000+02:00

From my journal on July 16, 2006 written during my flight to the States:

"My date of departure. But what a different departing feeling to be the one sending off others who are in fact departing Paris for good when I am simply taking a holiday. To my home. From my home, feeling like I can't wait to get there but also wondering if five weeks will feel too long. It's not in my range of experiences considered 'normal' to ever take a 5-week holiday away from home. I'm looking at my summer in two parts. Part I takes place in Paris. Part II, in the States. So as I'm on my flight signaling the end of the first phase, I have to take the time to reflect on what an amazing time it has been. The fun began the day that Joshua arrived, May 30th. So much I want to remember, to make a neat list of each and every day's activities, to record them in words so I can keep reliving memories. Yet in the same way that I want to read entire books while on this 9-hour flight but find myself able to only sleep and listen to my iPod, best intentions give way to just living in the moment.

"Time with Josh: Refilling wine glasses, wowing Edith with art gallery business strategies, long conversations in restaurants, at sidewalk cafes, over crepes to avoid the rain, a new leather jacket and another successful trip to Ted Baker. Meeting up with Karina, meeting up with Henderson, late mornings and even later nights followed by apologies to neighbors. Stephanie's birthday party, balloons and noise-makers and Josh in the middle of the six of us girls, completely holding his own and cracking jokes like he knew everyone for years. Sleeping in straight lines and morning conversations over French press coffee, opening the window to warm sunny days without plans or agendas other than to make new discoveries and just take our time.

"Two days after Josh's arrival, Ann and Ed, Rae Lynn and Kyle joined us in the city of lights. A long stroll through the Jardin des Tuleries over stories from Ann about fighting with our dad when they were kids, wine and cheese, and later meeting for an unexpectedly crazy throw-the-food-on-your-plate dinner at Relais Entrecote. Yves St. Laurent hat, looking so French, a Parisian bachelorette party at Montmartre, stopping for beers, brasserie dinner and phenomenal crÃ¨me brulÃ©. Dinner on the roof of Centre Pompidou, champagne and wine and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate dessert. Josh had to leave too soon. Re-kindling relationships with Anne-Caroline and Fabrice, getting Ann's approval on my new apartment (the 'sex street' really isn't that bad!), Moroccan food and discoveries of a different quartier."

My appreciation for Josh's visit goes beyond words. And to have Josh get to know my friends (and vise versa) was priceless; all the girls are still asking about him and passing along their hellos. And to be able to reconnect with Sturzl's was priceless. I think about the amount of time I spent with their family growing up, yet since college I've only seen them a couple times a year at family gatherings. In Paris Eddy was so willing to just try anything, flexible and concerned just that everybody was enjoying themselves. Ann kept pulling out her list of 50 useful words, practicing her pronunciation and ordering in French whenever possible, pointing to something saying "celui-ci." Kyle's curiosity and sheer excitement over what has become daily for me was refreshing and endearing. And despite her pregnancy, Rae Lynn took to the French women's philosophy that having just a bit of wine during pregnancy does no harm. I couldn't have been more thankful for such a generous and sincere family experience.

Adding blogging to the "To Do" list

2006-07-11T10:34:00.000+02:00

As my cousin Nic aptly put, you've probably nearly finished reading about Turkey by now....! This summer has been nothing short of amazing fun non-stop shared moments with family and terrific friends. The blogging just took a backseat to doing. Living. I have FIVE DAYS before I return HOME, and I can hardly contain myself. I'm SO ready. And it feels good knowing that it isn't because I'm unhappy or unsatisfied, restless or even homesick, but just because I NEED home as much as I need sun streaming through my windows and coffee in the morning.

Will work on some entries in the next few days, between haircuts and waxing, hanging curtains, phone calls, planting my flower boxes, and seeing friends whom I won't see for the next 5 weeks.

Turkey

2006-05-20T15:22:00.000+02:00

One week ago I was sitting on a rooftop terrace in Istanbul overlooking the Marmara Sea. I brought my computer and did some journaling one morning from the roof. Here are some clips (but...I warn...it's LONG!):

There are huge tanker boats coming in and resting just out in the haze that’s making the water line disappear before seeing a big hill rise up behind it, only the silhouette of which is visible besides the 8 or so spears sticking up for the prayer calls. The sun is beating down and making the water glitter to the right, next to a landscape that is clearly industrial with a visibly large red Turkish flag flying amidst the tall cranes and boat lifts. The buildings around me are scattered levels of high and low, balconies and outside circular stairways, plants and umbrellas and sheets hanging under extended rooftops. Behind me to the right I can see the rounded dome of the Blue Mosque; the main dome, the smaller domes and its four prayer tower spears are all adorned with golden tips with the Turkish crescent moon at the very top. Behind me to the left are the four spears and dome of Ayasofya, one of the oldest mosques in the world (which used to be the oldest Christian church until it was taken over by the Muslims). It was originally constructed in 315 AD, was burned 100 years later and rebuilt again in just 6 years time. I know it had something to do with Justintine and Constantine and the Ottomans and Byzantines and all the amazing rich ancient history that I never paid attention to or cared much about until arriving here, surrounded by a cultural tradition that has preserved its age and juxtaposed it with modern technology and modern commerce. Yet the streets are narrow and cobblestone and winding up and down the hills, between cracking buildings and renovated facades, around corners where, in a car, you’re bound to come to a screeching halt for a man pushing a huge flat wooden cart filled with lettuce or cucumbers or roasted corn on the cob up the hill.

When we first went to the Blue Mosque (Sultanahmet Camii), the afternoon prayer service was in session, and we sat in a courtyard and listened to the prayers being projected from a big speaker into the courtyard where mainly women waited for their husbands to finish and emerge. When we could, we entered from a side, wooden porch where we stepped onto mats and rugs, removed our shoes, and being a woman, I covered my head with my scarf. We entered into this expansive mosque with intricately decorated columns and ceilings and domes…the entire floor was covered in a repeating pattern of rugs, and as we walked around in just our socks, I felt warm and content and at peace. The Arabic calligraphy was prominently displayed on large wooden panels as well as painted above every door and worked into some of the ceramic tile work throughout the entire mosque. Looking up, you can rarely find an uninterrupted view of the ceiling, as there is a maze of heavy-duty metal ropes descending from every part of the ceiling to hold up the low-hanging lights that illuminate the whole mosque. At first I thought it was a shame that the lights were so low and the wires were everywhere, until I realized that it gave the effect of a cozy living room, with the wooden floors covered in rugs muting the sounds that, in most churches (as my only other frame of reference) echo against stone floors and bounce off of cold walls.

We finally found the spice market, a jam-packed, hold-your-bag-tight-against-your-body sort of place. A woman at one point was screaming and trying to run down towards the exit of the market. A man was yanking on her arm, starting to pull her denim shirt off, but she was dragging him, and whatever she was yelling was attracting the attention of everybody else—customers and vendors alike—who were watching her, some of whom started running in pursuit. The cheese men went back to slicing off samples, the men behind huge baskets of nuts started yelling out prices and plunging their plastic scoops back into the multi-colored menageries of pistachios, almonds, walnuts, orange cracker-coated nuts, and spicy cocktail mixes. The butchers stood behind cases displaying white hooves and bleached and salted pig skins, a few flies and bees buzzing around raw carcasses of chicken and lamb out on a wooden table off to the side. I stopped to buy some dried apricots, and when I walked beyond the baskets of fruits to pay for them I discovered an entire back section with rows of clear plastic cases containing every variety of Turkish delight, candied fruit, and sweetened nuts. Since we were looking for rose-hip jam, we then stopped at a spice stand that had rows of jars in the back. A short Turkish man came up to us speaking English, telling us to look around and that he’d help us in a minute. Thankful to step out of the crowd and not be harassed, we were happy to stand behind the low-hanging strings of dried peppers, garlic, and myriad other roots and vegetables that I didn’t know. We gazed over full baskets of spices: a whole row of whole peppers—mixed, black, white, red, berry—chunky red pimentos and brittle dried mint twigs, orange and red fine strands of saffron, smooth yellow cumins and curries, and in the front a row of wet red pepper paste. The back shelves were packed with rose, pomegranate, and fig jellies, honeys and jars of pure pollen, boxes of Turkish delight and apple tea and mixed sets of spices. Our Turkish spice seller sat us down in the back and ordered us apple tea from an old intercom on the wall. We sat on rug-covered stools and put our bags down. Our tea arrived, and while we sipped, he kept coming back to have us smell sticks of fresh vanilla and taste lemon salt crystals. We finally walked out with vacuum-sealed jars of exotic jams and spices and boxes of tea. We wove our way up narrow passage ways splitting in every direction, past reams of fabric and scarves and kitchen pots and coffee percolators. We didn’t know where the Grand Bazaar was, but we kept following the general direction leading upwards, and we arrived seemingly magically at the arched entrance to Kapali çarsi. The Grand Bazaar is an expansive covered market area with everything from rugs and embroideries, ceramics and Turkish lamps, leather, jewelry and jeans and tee-shirts, knock-off Fendis and Guccis. Whatever you’re looking for, you can find it there. The problem was that our feet were completely screaming by the time we arrived, and after both of us needing to use the bathroom facilities and finding absolutely filthy (stand-over-a-hole for the men) toilettes, we weren’t in much of a mood for being harassed: “Lady, come look at my shop” and “Hello? Hello? I’m talking to you. Please come have a look”. But then I found a ceramic oil lamp I really like, which caused me to follow the man, not surprisingly, to “his other shop” to look at more varieties. But it led me past an embroidery shop that was exactly the type of thing I’d been wanting to find. I sat on a rug-covered floor, sipped more apple tea, and looked at nearly one hundred embroideries, old stuff, all-silk, all hand-made, and the man was showing us photos in a magazine of rugs from different style influences and time periods.

Saturday night we went to a hamam, a Turkish Bath. I entered and laid on the enormous hot rock in the center. After a short while, a large Turkish woman came over to give me my soap bath. She'd smack my hip when she wanted me to flip over, sit up, or follow her to a side sink where she shampooed my hair while I sat on a thin Turkish towel between the woman’s bare legs as she sat on the edge of the sink and dumped water over my head, worked in the shampoo, and douced me again with buckets of warm water. She then sent me back to the rock, and as I laid on the hot rock, my body sweating yet energized from the serious exfoliating rough rub-down I’d received, I gazed up at the bottom side of a rounded stone dome punched with round holes and along the bottom, stars. Water ran from the 15 or so marble sinks placed symmetrically around the room, each one kept company by a silver bowl for dipping into the water and pouring it over your body if you got too hot. Due to a minor confusion about where I was supposed to go for my massage, I ended up being the very last person in women's hamam besides the Turkish women who worked there and who, at that time, were still wrapped in towels and sitting on the other two massage tables, some sipping cups of tea, all talking in low voices. It was after midnight, and a little girl was there going back and forth with silver bowls filled with water, and I just thought about how different her childhood memories will be of spending nights naked and wet and wrapped in towels at the hamam while her mom worked. Surrounded by women, in a community of support that will teach her essential lessons about her society and her religion and her body.

On Sunday after a rooftop terrace breakfast in the sun, Henderson and I took off for Topkapi Palace. We marveled at the strong eastern influence, the way the patterns on the kaftas and in the architecture and on the tapestries was so clearly eastern—when it could have gone either way with Turkey being situated and influenced from both the east and the west. The sultans would receive people on big cushiony couches and a huge wide bed. There was one picture on the wall depicting one of these meetings between the Turkish men and the Europeans (not sure from which country, but my guess is England or France). The European men are in their pointed shoes, their tights, their short pleated skirts, tight jackets, wigs, and pointed 3-corner hats. They are all standing together looking towards the Turkish men in their long robes, no shoes, some holding pipes, sitting on the floor, some on benches, their arms falling casually onto their robed laps. Henderson and I just laughed at the contrast, the French men all uptight and serious, not even able to sit on the floor and get comfortable with their short skirts! We joked about President Bush inviting foreign dignitaries onto a big bed to come sit with him and discuss international policies. We walked around all the grounds, looking through rooms of huge and extravagant jewels (more jewels than I’ve ever seen in my life!), looking at golden writing boxes, learning about how the sultans had 2 people with them at all times—one was their foot attendant, one carried the writing box and a flask of water at all times. We walked out on terraces that overlooked the Sea, went in circumsicion rooms, receiving rooms, deliberation rooms, kitchen rooms, dressing rooms, and places I didn’t even know the function of. The Harem was in the complex as well, but they charged an additional 10 lyra fee to see it, and by that time we’d been there for almost 3 hours. One of the most celebrated rooms at the palace contains artifacts from the Prophet Muhammad. There were signs outside the door asking people to remain quiet and respect the dignity of Muhammad. In that room alone, a man sang verses from the Koran into a microphone, sitting in a small booth. Rows of people moved around the cases containing the artifacts—a sword, one of his teeth, parts of his beard, a footprint, and a letter he wrote to the people telling them briefly what it meant to be Muslim. I could hardly see the items or read the translations, but it was pretty amazing to see the preservation of such things as old and significant as they are.

After leaving the palace, we sat outside and had a cold beer, we walked to a stand and bought chicken dolmer wraps which we took across the street to a park. We then found a little Turkish sweet shop where, little did we know, you order your pastries and eat them in the rather large back coffee-shop section. We ordered Turkish coffee also since we hadn’t drank it yet. It’s the size of an espresso but with so many grounds that it’s actually thick and sludge-like. But there’s a trick to drinking it. First you have to let it sit so the majority of the gounds settle to the bottom, but then once you start drinking, you have to finish relatively quickly otherwise the grounds on the bottom will soak up the water. The tradition is to then flip over the cup into the saucer, let the water drip onto the saucer, and after 2 minutes or so, flip over the cup and read your fortune in the grounds. We didn’t find anybody who could read ours. But our present was looking pretty fantastic.

To be a Sister

2006-05-10T19:31:00.000+02:00

I may change my mind often, but one thing is for certain, without a doubt: I have the two greatest brothers in the world! I just have to write about this, because this morning I did something I rarely do: I sent a forward. But it was worthwhile (ahem, I know everyone thinks their forwards are important!); it was a link on www.one.org (the ONE campaign to make poverty history) to send a letter to your senator asking her/him not to slash funding for Africa. For obvious reasons, this is an issue close to my heart, but I sent the link to my brothers, as they visited me when I studied in Zimbabwe, and Josh worked there for several months just over a year ago. And I just got home from class after, ironically, giving an oral presentation on Zimbabwe, to find emails from both Jon and Josh in response to my forward. Jon was sending his AP History class down to the computer lab to send the letter and participate in activism. And Josh sent his letter and proceeded to buy 10 wristbands to support the cause! I mean, really, I just can't get over how fantastic it is to be their sister!

Truly, it doesn't matter what we do or who we're with, when Jon, Josh, and I are together, we're always having a great time. Even as kids, we didn't really fight that much. Okay, sometimes I manipulated them into confessions of who used my toothpaste by promising not to yell, and after the guilty twin would step forward, I would, of course, yell. And yes, anybody who knows me really really well knows that I had "Jon days" and "Josh days" (this is NOT something I'm proud of....as I've only admited my terrible pitting of one twin against the other to a few people!). But really, for the most part, we always had fun together--whether building forts, playing "office" while dad worked at Sargento on Saturdays, or turning all the lights off in the house and playing some variation of hide-and-seek/kick the can (which was really "run into the living room pile of pillows before getting caught!"...renting Nintendo on special Saturday nights (because we weren't allowed to have Nintendo, like we weren't allowed to watch the Simpsons, Married with Children, or MTV) (VH-1 was okay when they played country music). We had some minor struggles--having family meetings and complaining about toilet seats left up, Jon always wanting a dog that was "just his!", Josh using the pink tupperware bowl when I thought, because he was a boy, that he should use the green one (even though I used the green one cuz it was my favorite), and arguing over who had to be on dog poop patrol. And now that we've forged our own paths (but still talk about the vacation home our three families will eventually share), I love the extent to which we're still close.

I have two amazing brothers who can pull off pastels and still climb mountains, who share their cigars with me and will humor me in post-dinner wrestling matches (which have been going on for a solid 20 years now...but the tables turned when they were 12 years old and suddenly surpassed me in size!). They are simply the best.

Once Expanded...

2006-04-29T00:38:00.000+02:00

After such a fulfilling trip home, I was lucky to return to Paris all sunny and warm, with
Tracey and Mike here. The first week back at class started out rocky, feeling like I'd forgotten each and every verb beyond "to eat" and "to want," but I'm now back into my routine and structure here, and it has been highlighted by several events and changes. First, I celebrated my birthday with my friends here. On the actual day, I went to yoga, received numerous "joyeux anniversaire!" greetings from the instructors (apparently our birthdays pop up on the computer screen when we swipe our cards to sign in)....helped my friend David Henderson (just "Henderson" to anyone who has heard me talk about him) move out of his apartment....and then came back to my apartment to shower and clean and prepare for the arrival of my girlfriends. Henderson arrived first, wheeling his desk over (which is amusing in itself, since he lives in "old Chinatown," just a 10-minute walk, where he received all kinds of crazy stares when the Chinese men wheeling grocery carts of purses and scarves went by without a second glance). So I rearranged my apartment, he installed my new desk and hooked up my computer and printer while I dried my hair. Karina arrived, followed by Laetitia, Stephanie with her dog Smitty, and Edith. We toasted with 2 bottles of champagne and just hung out talking before our reservations at a Thai restaurant down the street. We had a fantastic meal and then went out in my neighborhood afterwards. The air was still warm, and bars were flowing onto the street with people, tables, and music.

The following day I spent with Henderson--he officially checked out of his apartment, we had our regular Starbucks rendez-vous, and I took some pictures of him with his backpacks before he left to go traveling for the next 5 weeks before returning to Paris for just 3 days before his return to the States--Colorado, in fact.

And then I had a regular week of class, yoga, meeting Karina in the park, and hanging out with Theo in my apartment after yoga, on night brainstorming reality-tv show ideas. Molly, having been in NY for a job on my birthday, and Edith then took me out to L'Avenue for a birthday lunch on Wednesday. We sat outside, shared a half bottle of wine and followed lunch with a stroll (um, in the rain, yes) down Avenue Montaigne (which I knew nothing about until that day!) past some of the most beautiful and fashionable hotels in the city. (Plaza Athene is one of them, where Carrie from Sex and the City stayed during the final episodes when she came to Paris with Alexander Petrovski!) And then last night was the big celebration for Edith's boyfriend Victor's 30th birthday. He's Cuban, and Edith--being as amazing as she is--found a Cuban restaurant tucked away in the 11th that was named after the same spiritual symbol as Victor's spiritual sign. About 20 of us met there for a wonderful, worldly-transported experience of a meal, the Cuban music never ceasing. We then went out dancing afterwards, all of us girls sweating on the dancefloor but loving every moment until our steam was gone.

And so that's a rather non-insightful but "is what it is" catching up. But to just add a little flavor to that rather bland recounting, I had a memorable "daily" experience the other afternoon on my way to class. A man boarded the metro and leaned against the back door right in front of where I was sitting. He was carrying his guitar and started to play. The passengers cast him irritated looks or avoided him altogether, thinking they already knew his gig to be like the many others who board the train, perform a mediocre-at-best song or two and then expect payment. But when this man started singing, it was clear that he was different. He had one of the richest, most resonant, earthy sincere voices I've ever heard. And he sang about us all being "children under the sun," about it not mattering what color our skin is. And his song was so beautiful, blusey but inspiringly upbeat. And as he strummed and sang, people started smiling, tapping their feet, staring at him. A small Indian child in the aisle started dancing, and his mother gave him coins to give to the man. Everybody started reaching into their bags before he was even finished. When he did finish, he didn't have to collect anything; people got up out of their seats to go to him, arms extended with money, smiles on their faces, thanking him. He exited, and I looked around. It was true--blacks, whites, Indians, South Americans....we were all there, united in that moment in the metro. Even after he exited, the whole vibe throughout the train was uncompromisingly positive and energetic. He had changed the normally somber serious metro ride into something memorable. This. Is Paris.

Beautiful Reminders

2006-04-20T19:05:00.000+02:00

In the seven days I spent away from Paris, all the trees bloomed, flowers were planted, and the parks are full of foliage. I'm so glad I had my camera today, and clearly I couldn't stop myself from being a complete shutterbug! And this sunny spring day was made even more spectacular by spending time with my cousin Tracey and her husband Mike. They hit Paris like a storm, seeing and doing so much in just three days before heading to the more serene south of France. And then we got to spend last night and this morning together, and it was just fantastic to catch up with them--they have so much life and energy! And there's such a different dynamic in connecting with somebody in a place and space so different than we're used to. Normally I'm talking to Tracey near an open barbecue with kids running all over huge lawns...here it was in a Moroccan restaurant, on the small streets filled with milling people enjoying the warm weather, and in a little cafe near the base of the Eiffel Tower! Over and over again, I'm reminded of what amazing families I belong to...and toady on my walk home from breakfast with Tracey and Mike, I was reminded again why Paris is the most heavily visited city in the world.

There's No Place Like Home

2006-04-20T15:04:00.000+02:00

The seven days I spent at home are right up there with the best trips I've ever taken. And it's strange when, really for the first time in my life, going "home" is a scheduled vacation. Having lived in Milwaukee and Chicago, getting to see my friends and family in the Midwest has always just been part of my routine. So it was a little strange to map out each day for the short amount of time I had, especially after not having been home for five months and knowing I won't be again for another three. I had a wonderful, somewhat surprise welcome-home sushi dinner, Leah took a day off of work so we could do our annual spring-time make-up shopping and just spend the whole day bouncing around and eating fantastic meals. I was able to pay a surprise visit to Obadyah in Indiana, see Jenna in Milwaukee, eat way too much Mexican food, and have a sleep-over at Josh's and see his office. In Plymouth I spent a sunny afternoon riding my horse, celebrated my birthday (several times!), took walks around Crystal Lake, played with the dogs, and sat on back porches. My friend John drove up to Plymouth to hang out, we kept the wine flowing, toasted champagne, and cooked wonderful meals. I also got to spend really valuable time with my grandma (she's such an amazingly perceptive, positive, and witty 96-year old!), had time to bond with my brothers, and had opportunities for good conversations with both my mom and my dad. I saw cousins on both sides of the family on Easter Sunday, both by chance and planning, and Paula even remembered my birthday with a "Bonne Anniversaire" cake! And even though there are still people I didn't get to see and things I didn't get to do, I feel completely rejuvenated and whole again.

Top Ten Reasons why There's No Place Like Home:
(in no particular order!)

Getting a pedicure in Chicago is as easy as ordering a take-out pizza (and more enjoyable!)
The Nomad in Milwaukee and 52 Stafford in Plymouth are the only places where I'll drink a bloody mary
Wearing sweatpants and tennis shoes out to breakfast is perfectly acceptable
Chester's cheeseburgers. Need I say more?
Driving!
Letitia's cookies. So big. So good!
I can be witty and interesting (I don't have the language skills or quickness to do so in French!)
Listening to NPR in the morning
Sargento shredded cheese blends (there's nothing but shredded emental here)
Soft water!

It's time I acknowledge...

2006-04-04T00:28:00.000+02:00

Nostalgia. I get waves of it when I think of home: late Friday nights in the barn braiding manes and goofing with Shelly before a horse show, endless Thursday night capture the flag games during bonfires after softball, family meetings and tupperware cereal bowls and watching Jeopardy at 3:30 after school with huge bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I think of passing notes during Mrs. Behrenz's English class, putting on fashion shows, building extensive tents in Leah's basement, sneaking out of Krissy Grover's house to meet the boys sleeping over at Tim Mattes's house, homecoming and float building and filling up thermos mugs with hot chocolate from North dining hall at Notre Dame before heading to the stacks in the library. I think about yelling to Leah over the banana tree in my backyard in Zimbabwe and sitting on my favorite rock along the Lake Michigan shore in Milwaukee. And for the most part, all of the people who have mattered the most in my life are still somehow a part of my life. When I go home I will spend time with my family, I will stay in Chicago with Leah and stop in Milwaukee to visit Jenna and try to coordinate a drink with John while he's visiting his family. I will visit my grandma, I can stop in to see Shelly and maybe Leah if she's in Plymouth. I will go out to the Kelly Maloche's to ride Mac, and everybody who I can't see, I can still connect with on the telephone or via email at the very least.

So as I've shared my daily adventures, the nuances of Parisian life, my personal reflections, and stories about friends and family, there is one person who was such a huge, life-changing force in my life who simply hasn't been mentioned on this blog. And although it has been exactly 9 months now since I last saw him and since I severed the very ties that used to often keep me afloat, I have to acknowledge that in my nostalgic reflections, I often think about Germaine. The other day I heard a song and just swelled up; I just thought, "That was Germaine." I want to share the lyrics, because no matter what has happened and what will come, I realize that I was extremely blessed to have had somebody in my life who knew me and loved me in the very way that he did.

"Everything" by Alanis Morrisette

"I can be an asshole of the grandest kind
I can withhold like it’s going out of style
I can be the moodiest baby, and you’ve never met anyone
As negative as I am sometimes

I am the wisest woman you’ve ever met
I am the kindest soul with whom you’ve connected
I have the bravest heart that you’ve ever seen
And you’ve never met anyone as positive as I am sometimes

You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate
And you’re still here.

I blame everyone else, not my own partaking
My passive-aggressiveness can be devastating
I’m terrified and mistrusting
And you’ve never met anyone
As closed down as I am sometimes

You see everything you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate
And you’re still here.

What I resist, persists, and speaks louder than I know
What I resist, you love, no matter how low or high I go

I’m the funniest woman that you’ve ever known
I’m the dullest woman that you’ve ever known
I’m the most gorgeous woman that you’ve ever known
And you’ve never met anyone as everything as I am sometimes

You see everything you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed
There’s not anything to which you can’t relate
And you’re still here."

I know this is the direction my life needed to take, and I know this is where I belong. But it doesn't mean that I've burried or forgotten the most serious relationship I've ever built. I guess part of the growing includes the recognition of the amazing role Germaine played in my life. And I'm thankful for that place that he occupied.

Thank God for April

2006-04-04T00:03:00.000+02:00

The spring has always been my favorite. I used to attribute it to my birthday being in the spring, but it's really much more than that. April rolls around, and I just become alive. This year is no different. A few weeks ago I was struggling to figure out a way to put myself in a better place emotionally. Yes, I had days of wonder and excitement, but in general I felt in a funk. I adopted the morning walks...but just days later, I wasn't feeling too much better again. Then I realized drastic steps needed to be taken. One: I needed to go home. Two: I needed to get my body into shape--for both my physical and emotional well-being. So, on an impulse, really, I bought a ticket to fly home for a week over Easter. I have two weeks off from class, and I felt compelled to enjoy Paris or travel elsewhere in Europe. But then I realized that none of that would make me happier than just going home to see the people I love. And then, on a Saturday night when my neither my neighbor Theo nor I had any plans, he invited me to go to Bikram yoga with him. I decided I would, but he wrote up a contrace that I had to sign to make sure I was serious; I had to go 5 days in a row to see if it was something I really liked. Since two Saturdays ago, I've gone every day except two, and not only is it providing more structure to my days, but so much in my body and mind has shifted as well!

Yellow flowers are being planted around the city, and tonight on my walk home from girls' dinner at the cafe, I spotted a lit-up crab apple tree in full bloom, it's pink and white flower petals closed like the fingers on a hand. I remember Hebel once telling me that my spring-time eagerness was instinctual, that I was just following the cycle of life and birth and reawakening that occurrs when winter finally thaws. And maybe as the planets move closer to their positioning on the day of my entrance into this world, everything else just falls into place. And even as changes occurr now, I see hope instead of instability in the alterations. Maybe it's bigger than I can even fathom. Or maybe it's just April.

Restored Hope

2006-03-21T10:48:00.000+01:00

And I haven't even visited the newly-opened Starbuck's! I figured out some things yesterday. I got up early, put on my Nikes, Patagonia jacket and J.Crew sweatpants, and I marched out the door like a true American to power-walk the streets and gardens of Paris. The air was cool and heavy with dusk's fog that hadn't yet been burned off by the sun. I left my iPod behind and just breathed deeply and let my mind wander, knowing I needed to figure out a solution to this funk I've been in. My friend Matty sent me an email wondering how I could possibly be feeling down in "the best city in the world" and as I walked down small cobblestone streets, past boulangeries with shining lights, emitting a melange of smells from the sweet breads and bitter coffee, I realized that I truly am in the best city in the world. People were out walking their dogs, carrying briefcases to work, their perfume still fresh, their hair still perky, their clothes still pressed. The streets were still wet from the night's washing, and as I rounded the corner to the entrance of the grand Jardin des Tuleries, I saw the Eiffel Tower still encased in fog to my left, the rounded metal rooftops so characteristic of Paris to my right, and the gleaming gold tip of the Concord pillar in front of me at the far end of the garden. Expanses of garden stretched out in front of me as men were already out trimming rows of hedges and tilling up the soil plots which soon will be planted with spring flowers. I noticed a tent being constructed along one side of the garden, and two men were installing a piece of modern art in a section of the garden seemingly dedicated to such (as the rest of the garden is full of marble statues obtained by Napoleon in his many conquests). I found two reflecting pools I didn't know existed, and on my way back through the Palais Royale garden, the large center fountain had been turned on and chairs had been unstacked for petit-dejuner at the various cafes lining the streets along my route.

Not only did I realize that morning walks may be the solution, but it also occurred to me that all this time I've been trying to fit in, I've also removed myself from the position I was in when I fell in love with Paris in the first place. I loved it for everything that made it so Parisian--the cafes with chalkboard signs advertising cafe and croissants, the sweeping art-deco design style, the beautiful buildings with wrought-iron balconies and expansive gardens with chairs set around the grass, flowers, and fountains. The little shops and tiny alley-ways and hidden staircases. And as I have worked to create my life here, trying hard to cease being and looking and acting like a "tourist", my senses have numbed to those things which thrill me about Paris. So as my morning walks will take me through different parts of the city, in my American walking gear, I will constantly be reminded of all those things that brought me here in the first place.

Today's medical appointment also restored some much-needed hope in the whole French way of doing things. Luckily I was in the first group of people for the day, but I was told where to wait, I was called promptly, they took an x-ray picture of my lungs (seen here, yes...I just love that I get to keep my proof of healthy lungs!), I spoke with a doctor who asked a number of questions and took my blood pressure, and then the receptionist explained the papers I was given and the process for buying "stamps" for my "titre de sejour" (residence permit). I walked to a nearby tabac to buy the stamps, went back to the building to see another woman behind a different desk to hand in all my necessary papers, and she told me when I could return to pick up my official (final!) "titre de sejour". Everybody was helpful and pleasant, and I was finished with everything in under 2 hours. As I exited the metro near my apartment, x-ray envelope and French newspaper in hand, I just started laughing. I am official. Everything is real--I'm living here, I have papers, I can come and go as I want for the next year and I made it through the process. And it wasn't so bad afterall.

That's the thing about slumps. When you crawl out of one, you can look back and say it wasn't so rough. It is even cold, gray and raining a bit today, but all of it feels good. I will meet my friend Henderson in a bit to make our "connaissance" with the Starbucks on my street, and then I will go to class. I do not have phonetics today, so I might even use my movie pass to catch a film this evening, especially if it's still raining. As Leah would say, the world is my French oyster, and I need to not forget it!

Sometimes a Starbucks just Helps

2006-03-19T23:56:00.000+01:00

I need spring. Tomorrow is the first official day, and I have high hopes that it will help propel me out of the winter doldrums of inactivity, gray skies, and complacency. Okay, perhaps that's a bit dramatic, but I'm definitely needing a helping hand, as the "shine" of living abroad is waning. I am dreading my medical visit in 2 days, (yet another visa-extending process) as I've already been warned that I will be there for hours. On one hand I love that this is "normal" for me: that I bought a movie pass, have a French bank account, informed my landlord that I would move out early to search for a new apartment for next year and I'm looking into 1-year cell phone contracts that will give me a better price than pay-as-I-go. I found an interesting ballet that I want to see this Saturday, I discovered an equestrian performance at Versaille, and I just wrote down information on numerous temporary exhibits around the city that I want to catch. I'm in class every day, I have people to call, places to go, etc. BUT it's just not the same as being able to do the simple, every-day things that I miss about home. I miss walking across Wicker Park. I want to spend a Saturday afternoon shopping with my mom, and last night when my brothers called me from a Notre Dame benefit dinner they attended with my dad and the Foley's, I just really really missed being able to participate in those things. To see Josh's new office, to see how big Scout as gotten, to have coffee at Laetitia's with Leah, to drive up to Plymouth on a Sunday. To ride through the country, or take the time to go ride Mac, to visit my grandma and see my cousins. Sometimes I feel like I have to fill my time here, like because I'm here I need to be exploring and seeing and doing and trying new things. And it's exciting, but I remember feeling this way when I was in Zimbabwe too. After a while, despite how amazing and thankful I was/am to be doing something life-changing and experience-stretching, living in a different country isn't always roses. And I guess it shouldn't be. That's why, despite being rather anti-Starbucks at home, I can't hide my excitement that a Starbucks is about to open in two days at the end of my pedestrian street! Spring really is coming, I'm certain.

Manifestations

2006-03-14T21:10:00.000+01:00

The Paris police are once again parked on certain streets in mass quantities. A new wave of "manifestations" (French for "protests") have lead to closing universities and lycees (the last 2 years of high school) for the last 2 days of last week, culminating in a sit-in at the Sorbonne which was stormed and evacuated by the police using tear gas and riot shields on Saturday. (In fact, I just got off the phone with Molly who lives near St.-Michele and she said there is rioting going on outside her building right now with things getting thrown and broken and tons of police who can't seem to stop any of it!)

Here's what's going on: the French Prime Minister proposed a new law replacing the current job contract for young workers with a new one. The new one--CPE (translated meaning first employment contract)--allows businesses to fire workers under 26 years old within the first 2 years of their employment without giving any reason or justification and without having to pay out any of the usual social security benefits. The old contract gave young workers a lot more security but, of course, made firing somebody who wasn't doing a good job nearly impossible for the employer. The idea behind this new contract is that employers will be more willing to hire/take a risk on young workers if they know they're not bound to keep them. This is a huge issue in France right now where the overall unemployment rate is nearly 10% and the jobless rate for young people (under 26) is 23% (although I've heard figures as high as 40%). This new contract will take effect in April, as it was recently approved by the National Assembly. The young people, of course, see this as a complete disregard for their voice, as it's an issue directly pertaining to them but without any possible way of having a voice in its approval. And here, protests are not unusual, as they are upholding the very-French revolutionary style of solidarity against the government.

The irony in all of this, however, is that the vast majority of the young "jobless" are those of immigrant decent living in the banlieu where the "civil unrest" took place in October. However, they're not the ones protesting. It's the kids in the universities and lycees. I talked with my friend Melanie about it last week; she's 24 and finishing her university studies this June. She's worried about not getting a job in her field (and this new contract is supposed to spur the sluggish French economy), and yet she doesn't want to lose any of the individual rights that she says sets France apart from so many other countries where people aren't protected by their government. Then in talking to Molly, whose husband's family owns the cafe, I hear their concerns over how difficult it is to run a business effectively when it's so difficult to fire somebody who's not doing their job. There are so many papers that need filing, so many statements and corroborations, that there's no incentive to take risks on hiring new employment. In my opinoin, this is where those in the banlieu are at a disadvantage. They're not the people whose friends and family own larger businesses that can hire them. So for the most part, I can see how they stand to benefit from a shifting of governmental regulations to an emphasis on personal responsibility.

Hearing these different arguments makes me think a middle ground exists in there somewhere. France, in my opinion, is too "socialist" in their policies, while the US doesn't necessarily provide coverage. In France, for example, if you are fired from your job, the government pays you 65% of your total salary for the next 2 years. And in fact, I believe that you only have to have held that job for 4 or 5 months before you qualify for all the social security benefits. (Here "social security" encompasses national healthcare, sickness and maternity benefits, unemployment, and retirement.) People in France are reimbursed for 90% of their medical expenses (including prescriptions), they have long maternity leaves, they have many protections in their job contracts (not to mention that they work 35-hour weeks and get a minimum of 5 weeks holiday per year, although I'm not sure if it's paid or partly-paid holiday time). I think many Americans would like just a fraction of those benefits. The overall way of life is undoubtedly affected by these issues, and that of course has its pros and cons too. People are much more leisurely and relaxed here, enjoying their food and wine and engaging in good conversations. They don't scarf down Big Macs in the car on a 30-minute lunch break, and they walk a whole lot more (I mean, I know I'm over-simplifying, but these are just some obvious examples!) Yet as I've also experienced over and over again, there's not the same "hustle" when it comes to getting anything done. You'll wait in a line here to do just about everything. (Okay, these aren't Russian bread-buying lines...but having just been to the prefecture today, I'm jaded on the amount of time and rigmarole it takes to get stuff done here!) In fact, a friend of mine who lost a computer in the mail (yes...a whole desk-top computer!) was told by a postal employee that 40% of packages sent from France to the US turn up "lost in transit"! (Um, they have a full-time employee dedicated to hand-writing into a ledger the tracking numbers of lost packages in Paris alone!) So...yes, there must be a happy balance. I have no solutions just yet, but I'm certainly learning a lot in the process...and in the meantime, I've already seen one manifestation, and I'll probably see more in the next few days, but I'm going to observe from a safe distance!

An Amazing Woman

2006-03-11T12:35:00.000+01:00

So much has happened since my last posting, but this isn't the time to discuss any of it! Right now there's just one thing on my mind: the incredible time I had with my mom and Paul when they visited me for the past week!

I know I've been missing my family lately, so I was a kid before Christmas in the days before my mom and Paul arrived. They arrived last Wednesday, and we had a lunch of croque monsieurs before I had to go to class. I rushed over to their hotel that evening, knowing what I'd discover but bursting at the seams to actually see that it had happened. Mom mom was officially engaged!! Now she was the kid on Christmas morning, and she couldn't stop hugging me and smiling. Paul had the ring hand-designed, and the beauty and quality of ring itself is spectacular, but the symbolic meanings he incorporated is priceless. We celebrated with dinner at a cute and scrumptious dinner around the corner, and then we went to the cafe to celebrate with more champagne and friends. (I had told everybody I know here that my mom was getting engaged...and my friends wanted to meet her and be able to celebrate with her and Paul on their special day!)

The next days we met in the late morning for breakfast or lunch, I went to class, mom and Paul explored, went to the Louvre, did "Paris" things...and then we met back up in the evenings for drinks and dinners--Indian food, Moroccan, Traditional French, Italian... Paul and mom stayed in a great hotel that had live jazz music on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, so we'd start or end our nights (somtimes both!) in the hotel lounge. On Saturday we rented a car and drove to the champagne region of France. I had my atlas, but after we missed the first turn-off, we ended up following the "Route Touristique de Champagne" which lead us through every small town in the region, past old churches and around corners big enough for only one small car. We drove past nearly every small champagne "house," (which is literally people's homes with vineyards for backyards, and they sell their family-labeled champagne right there!). We ended up on dirt roads in the hills literally cutting through the vineyards, and we all decided that if we never even arrived in Epernay, we wouldn't feel disappointed! (The "tourist route" was over a 2-hour diversion from the direct path to the main city of champagne!) When we did finally arrive and drove down "Champagne Row" we found closed gates, dark buildings, and no cars. It's winter, and they don't do cave tours and tasting on Saturdays in the winter! Who would've thought!? So we ate a late lunch and then discovered just one champagne house that was open. It was perfect, as it was already nearly 4:00 by then. We toured the caves, tasted vintage and regular champagne, and then got back in the car and this time made it back to Paris in under 2 hours!

I slept over that night in their hotel room (got my own pair of slippers!)...in large part because I just didn't want to leave them...and the next morning was mom's 53rd birthday! We took a scenic walk through the Louvre, over Pont des Artes, through the Palais Royale courtyard and one of the original covered malls ("galleries")...but we also got snow/hail/rained on before arriving at a Cuban restaurant for brunch. Karina met us (after running the Paris half-marathon!) and we had a nice long brunch. Since the weather was still crummy, we ended up back in my apartment--mom napped, Paul read, and I did some homework. We had cups of tea and a little snack and then caught a cab to Moulin Rouge. We skipped the dinner portion and arrived for the show, had a great table, more champagne and wine, and watched a truly French cabaret performance!

Monday morning mom and I had "mother daughter" time, so she met me at my favorite breakfast cafe on my street, took a walk, stopped in some shops, went to a free black and white photo exhibit, took a coffee, and then we walked back to their neighborhood before I had to go to class. Paul took that morning to go to St. Sulpice (and consequently explore the vast majority of the 6th arrondisiment in trying to find the church!), since he was reading The DaVinci Code while he was here. That night we sat at low tables and feasted on tajines at my favorite Moroccan restaurant. Tuesday was their last day, and we had dinner reservations at one of the top 40 restaurants in Paris--Lasserre. I didn't really think about all the implications of a top restaurant in Paris--the city most renowned for its chefs and "haute cuisine"--so we arrived a bit underdressed (Paul had to put on a suit coat), and were then waited on by about 6 different people. The food was the best I think any of us have ever tasted!! We had different wines to go with the different courses, and the flavors mixed together in a way that took food into the realm of art. Exhausted and elated, we took a cab back to the cafe after I received a message from Edith that she would be there with Victor, her dad, and her dad's girlfriend. It was the perfect place for the last night to a superbly perfect trip.

After sleeping over again, mom and I had to say goodbye in the morning. I felt so good too have had the chance to get to know Paul better, to have interesting conversations with him about religion and science and history...to see the way he truly enjoys life...to see the way he and my mom love and support each other...to really feel good about their engagement and the life that they will build together. But after I said goodbye to Paul and he went downstairs, that's when it really hit me that I wasn't ready to say goodbye to my mom. Everything hit me--how much I cherish her for who she is, how much I love the way she has taken control of her life, how much I've come to trust her, and just how much I miss being close to her. As we both sat on the bed crying, the box of kleenex between us, I realized just how connected we are. I am so thankful that I can share my life here with her, that she wants to see and experience even a portion of what I'm doing here, and that she understands why I am still not ready to come home. She "gets" me. And I think I "get" her. I couldn't stop crying when I said goodbye and watched her walk down the hallway. Her being here, our great discussions, the chance to interact in a different space, and just having the time to re-connect and deepen our understanding of each other was the real highlight of their visit.

Waterfall Outside my Window

2006-02-16T00:03:00.000+01:00

It's really raining, and I couldn't be happier to just be in my apartment. Norah Jones is playing and my "zanzibar clove" candle is burning (thanks again Dad!) reminding me of my apartment in Chicago. Norah reminds me of Milwaukee. But I've got French grammar books scattered across the foot of my bed since my new class at the Sorbonne started on Monday. I go every day from now until the end of May, and phonetics and lectures start next week. I somehow managed to test into the Intermediate 10 level, which means that after my final exams, I'd be in the "Superior" level. It's hard to believe, and when I hear some of the other people in my class speak, I wonder if somebody graded my test wrong! But I like the challenge, as it definitely is one. But tonight I talked to my Grandma Gentine on the phone. She left me a message yesterday, wishing me a happy Valentine's day, and talking to her and my aunt Ann (who was visiting Grandma when I happened to call, and she practiced some French with me!!) made me feel like I wasn't so far away. Last night I "celebrated" Valentine's Day in the best way possible--not romancing but hanging out with friends. Sly and Steph had a group of us over for dinner (Edith & Victor, Yann & Molly, and me), and we all sat on the floor around their table with a placard/grill-thing in the middle. We put meat and various small veggies on the grill, while we heated up our cheese and eggs underneath in little saucers. We then poured all of it onto potatoes while exclaiming over the wonder of interactive eating. We drank wine and champagne, watched a French comedian, played with the dog, ate ice cream and just chilled until sometime after midnight. And now it's sometime after midnight again, and I have to work on changing my sleeping patterns. I've been staying up until roughly 2 am for the past 2--3 weeks, which means that I can't get out of bed before 9 am. This is problematic now with class! So....I'm going to let Norah and the rain put me to sleep.

Oh, and I took out my nose piercing. Nothing dramatic...just decided I was finished with it. It kept poking the inside of my nostril and getting pulled out by the towel when I dried my face. Besides, I'm not cutting my hair as I used to when I wanted to change my look (which I used to do so often that my Grandpa Suemnicht wouldn't recognize me), so the nose piercing was one aspect I could alter!

Oh Bugger!

2006-02-15T23:30:00.000+01:00

I need to back up. Way back, to several weekends ago. Yes...London! I arrived on a Friday evening, having taken the EuroStar train under the English Channel. It's rather anti-climactic, really, as you're only in the tunnel for 20 minutes, and the rest of the ride is flat and without much to look at. But after only 2 hours and 30 minutes, it's really cool to go from Paris to London. From speaking French to English. From drinking wine to pints of hand-pulled ale. From eating beef and duck to fish and chips. My friend Matt booked us a place in Notting Hill, and I was thinking of Hugh Grant when I went to a pub for some dinner since Matty didn't arrive until after 9:00 pm. Since I arrived at the pub alone and was told that seating was fend-for-yourself, I joined a man sitting by himself. Jules ended up being a lot of fun to talk to, and his friend Hy-Ann arrived, so the three of us got involved in a quiz game until Matt met me there. Saturday morning Matty and I strolled the length of the Portobello Road market. This is the market in the opening scene of "Notting Hill" the movie, and Hugh's narration describing the market was perfect. We went from antique cameras and boxing gloves to army gear to produce and bakery, and finally we hit the vintage section sprawled under the tube tracks. We split a colossal Belgian chocolate brownie and left after an unpleasant run-in with a laundromat worker who didn't like that we ducked into her warm space to look at the map. We then went to Harrods, strolled the undescribable food market, bought a late lunch and then wanted to go find a park to eat in. All the parks were private and gated. (Yes, I thought of Hugh again!) We finally found a church with a small courtyard on the side, and we ate until attacked my pigeons. That night we went to see "Blood Brothers," a British musical and ate Indian food after the show. On Sunday we saw the touristy sights--Abbey Road, Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the Thames, Picadilly Circus, etc. We enjoyed a pint and "bangers and mash" at a pub, ran into the Chinese New Year celebration. That night we saw "Munich," and called it up early. Monday called for a split--I shopped Notting Hill (terrific boutiques and vintage shops!) while Matt went back to Picadilly. We met up for lunch and then realized I'd miss my train if I didn't hurry!

Okay, so that's the whirl-wind breakdown of my trip to London!! There was more, of course...like doing "jazz hands" on the way to the movie, our wonderful breakfasts in the downstairs garden room, getting too many handshakes and not enough space from a drunk man at the first pub who supposedly spoke 7 languages and started out loving Americans but ended up cursing at us when he left. There were discussions about class and family ties after the musical which surprised us by ending on a sad note...and not enough discussions (ahem, Matt) after "Munich" about identity, nationality and the importance of a home. The trip was a fantastic idea, and one that Matt has been proposing for months. I'm happy to have spent some time there, although it's defininately not a city for only 3 days! Good thing I'm only a 2+ hour train ride away!

Cultural Reflections

2006-02-04T14:55:00.000+01:00

I woke up this morning thinking, “Do I still love it here?” I realized I was laying in bed with a frown on my face and no motivation to get out of my warm bed. But then I smiled. I don’t even mind that I’m freezing at night because my old windows are drafty, or that I don’t have the same motivation to run out for a baguette in the morning. It’s winter, and it’s gray, and nobody here is going to claim that this is a great time to be in Paris. And I thought about my day yesterday. As I emerged from the Luxembourg RER station for the first time and didn’t recognize where I was, snow was swirling as I crossed the street, realized I’d gone the wrong way and turned around to re-cross the same intersection. I walked streets I’d never walked before in the 5th, little streets with Tibetan restaurants and Buddhist shops. I managed to emerge right near the Sorbonne, got my identity card within 5 minutes, and then walked along the Jardin du Luxembourg to see the new photo exhibit. Set against the backdrop of green leaves, expansive walkways, and an old stone garden house with the fountain in front of it, the photos transported me to a different world. An Afghani man sat on the edge of a bed, his hand on the forehead of a dying Afghani woman. Next to it, in stunning reds, was an aerial photo of Indian men packed next to each other celebrating the first day of spring. Only their red turbans could be seen from the vantage-point, except for one man whose head was tossed back in joy, a huge smile across his face, hands raised, face streaked with red dye. “Here comes the Flood” played on my iPod when I came across a photo of an Indonesian woman sitting in the foreground, a thin cloth mask across her mouth and nose, her hand on her forehead and the destruction of the tsunami in the background. All these people, all these realities, different cultures, travesties, celebrations, different struggles. But the same smiles and tears and apprehension and devastation. Malawian kids in a rudimentary classroom, teaching themselves. Pregnant Danish mothers standing on the bank of a river. Sudanese woman near Darfor repairing a thatched hut after torrential rains. The snow started swirling again, and the sky was gray and my fingers and toes were growing numb. But I was so content in my world of wonder. So connected, so inspired, so intruiged by the enormity of the world, so necessarily diverse.

Globalization seems to be the hottest word in the past 2 years, and I have no doubt the word or the trend is going away. But as countries strive to join the global market, convinced there’s no way to survive without playing along at this point, I also worry about the loss of so many distinct and unique cultures. Cultures that provide us with different perspectives, ways of living, beliefs and customs and foods and languages. If these differences aren’t respected and thereby preserved, we’ll live in a world where, whether in Istanbul or Los Angeles, you can walk into the exact same restaurant, order off of the exact same menu, buy the same pair of jeans and find the same notebook. The French have been criticized for their farm subsidies, and they have a rap for being snobbish, but they believe in protecting those aspects of their culture that both define and preserve what is distinctly “French”: their cheeses, their wines, their fresh local produce, their cocoa for chocolates, their grains for breads and pastries, their rich butter, their duck and rabbit and farm chickens. The French cuisine, whether one loves it or not, is distinctly French. And I can’t imagine living in or visiting France and not being surrounded by local butchers and boulangeries and chocolateries and floral shops. I can walk into a fromagerie (cheese counter) and find hundreds of varieties of cheese along with fresh eggs, fresh butter that they slice off a big round wheel, yogourt in little glass jars, and fresh cream they scoop out of cauldrans with large ladles. The kiosque on the corner sells the newspapers and magazines, shoe repairmen are still in every quartier, and there’s a hardware store with everything from dishes to tools right across the street.

I met a man from Mali last night at a party, and we discussed the systemic racism in France. The way that laws are merely rules, and that the rules are always flexible, depending on who you are, the color of your skin, which country you come from, and if the person behind the desk or wearing the police uniform had a good night’s sleep. France is far from perfect, and too often they like to criticize other countries without looking at the problems right in their own capital. It’s a place where you have to ask several times and then demand before you get the answer you want. But as I see beyond the surface nuances of what’s wrong with this country, I also gain a slightly deeper love for what it’s doing so well.

Weather Report

2006-02-02T23:46:00.000+01:00

I'm in a dry spell. I keep thinking about writing a blog entry because so much really has happened. So many decisions, different thoughts about life and my direction in it, exciting events, frustrating experiences...and even a trip to London last weekend. I mean, I have a lot to write about! But I have no spark. Perhaps I'm spent after waiting in lines and filling out papers and wandering huge department stores in search of a simple button to replace the one that's missing on my jeans that I'm wanting to wear. And I can't type fast because I have a huge band-aid on my index finger because I cut it open tonight cooking dinner. This is not to say that I'm in a personal slump, because I'm definitely not. But I'm in a writing dry spell. So the London trip will make it on the blog...hopefully sometime over the weekend. I'm waiting for a rainy day when I don't have any obligations or appointments, when I can fill up my French press and drink 2 full cups of coffee, catch up on emails and download pictures and just feel back on track. The forecast looks promising...

Mes Voisins

2006-01-24T12:09:00.000+01:00

Neighbors. You just can't avoid 'em. So I've been in the dog-house with the neighbors in my building--a note on my door about running my washing machine at night, a pound on the wall in the middle of the afternoon, a pound on the ceiling at midnight. I can't seem to win. Even last Saturday when I was sitting on the floor typing an email--no radio, no television, no noise at all--my neighbor pounded on my wall. I was appalled, so I pounded back. He needed to know that whatever noise he heard did not come from me!

But today my landlords came over to look at the possibility of hanging a shelf I bought. Antti brought his mom to show her the flat (she's visiting from Finland), and then, next thing I know, there's a plumber in my tiny studio, taking apart my heater, and then my downstairs neighbor is knocking on the door. I'm inviting everybody in, we're all standing around the bed, shoulders nearly touching. Everybody is discussing peeling paint and leaking bathrooms and broken heaters. I'm trying to follow the rapid French conversations, turning to my downstairs neighbor to apologize yet again for running my machine in the middle of the night. Discussing rugs as sound barriers, poking holes in the wall to check humidity, moving the ladder and replacing the thermostat. Everything was done and taken care of in less than an hour. Because the initial conversation has been breached--in person--from now on when I see Sebastian, the downstairs neighbor, we will exchange pleasant greetings and I won't feel bad when he tells me that I'm still taking too loud on the telephone.

Do the French have Cliches? (It sounds like a French word...perhaps they invented them!)

2006-01-19T01:17:00.000+01:00

As a writing instructor, I've always told my students to avoid cliches. So I guess it's trite to say that it takes being away from home to realize how great home really is. But it's true. That's the tricky thing about cliches. Unless this is the first entry you've read on my blog, it's no secret that I adore Paris. But tonight I'm also reminded about how much I simply love home. You know, my tag-line on this website is about having a plan but following my heart. And so I'm here. Yet still there are many shades of gray between staying in one place and weaving a zig-zag line in no particular direction. I'm no stranger to gray shades (in fact, sometimes I frustrate myself with my inability to make anything a matter of black or white), nor do I mind lingering in the gray for a while, but eventually I want to see the sun. I want to know that what I am doing and where I'm doing it is perfectly right for me.

So now, hold on as I work my way back to the point I was making about home... Since living here, I've (not surprisingly) wondered if I could make Paris a permanent home. I've often answered with a resounding "yes!". But I think I'm coming closer to discovering more and more about what I love about my "home" and all that it encompasses. Tonight I saw "La Rumeur Court" (the French love to change movie titles...and I don't know what it is in English) with Jennifer Aniston and Kevin Costner. Whether it was seeing the New York skyline or the scene when they're driving in a convertible along the coast south of San Francisco, the way the family interacted, the way people shouted and bounced around, the over-packing and over-spending and over-drinking...all of it was just so "American." And instead of having feelings of needing to escape it, I felt a sense of relief. I identified. People here are quiet talkers...they don't bounce around or flail their arms...they are reasonable, "oooh-la-la"-ing over a tiny chocolate but not gorging on pints of ice cream. But I like to shout. I fling my arms. And if I wasn't slightly lactose-intolerant, I'd most definitely eat more ice cream!

Besides, it's also a movie about family. About being different but being family nonetheless. About discovering what still brings you together after asserting independence and finding self and breaking away. Because there's really nothing comparable to family (and my family has stood up to some decent challenges...so there's no exception here!), home for me is also being close to my mom, my dad, Josh, and Jon. I've imagined being "that crazy Aunt Amanda" who lives in Paris and brings home bottles of champagne and boxes of chocolate for Christmas... but maybe there's a niche for me in that respect while residing State-side. Besides, if I find a way to keep coming back for visits, I can have the best of both worlds. (How's that for ending with a cliche!)

Jazz and Creme Brule

2006-01-14T17:19:00.000+01:00

The bright blue sky is finally fading, creating silhouettes of French rooftops and chimneys against an intense yet darkening backdrop. I'm sitting in a cafe, with only a window separating me from the pedestrians outside, of which there are swarms because it's Saturday and it was warm all day and everyone wants to be outside doing something. Anything. I took a jog this afternoon, and my path cut through cobblestone squares, past regal statues, through the Palais Royale gardens where a fountain shot into the air as people basked in the sun around the perimeter. I cut through a small passageway that opens into the main Louvre courtyard, under the arc at the entrance of the Jardin des Toulleries, and traversed the length of the garden. I am not a jogger, but today felt like spring, and spring energy manifests in me like no other time of the year.

My cousin Nic just left on Thursday, after spending 9 days with me, and I was not ready to see him go. Our similar interests and passions have always connected us on a level that is truly special. When our families debate, Nic and I align on the liberal side of any argument; he and I are both artistic, creative-minded people; we have both discovered our passion for teaching and instructing, and we can lose ourselves in conversations about ideas, books, food or punctuation marks. We had great "vacation" moments of discovery and sigh-seeing, but the quintessential Paris moment was watching him passionately play his saxophone (as the crowd watched, mesmerized, smiles forming, heads nodding) at two different jazz clubs/caves on the last night. He was specifically invited by another musician to move to the second club (which was said to be "more serious"), where he quickly emerged as the most talented sax player in the club. Between jazz music, wandering the streets, hanging out at the cafe, and reminiscing about funny childhood moments, we still managed--as we always did as kids--to completely amuse ourselves and laugh uncontrollably at something or another. (When we were kids, we couldn't contain ourselves once at a funeral because he'd pulled the purple ball off the top of my Grimace stocking cap! This time it was the "theater man" thrashing his body in dance movements to terrible live Beatles music...we couldn't help ourselves!)

I have been so happy enjoying this city, and moments like my jog this morning just remind me of how awe-some it really is to be here. But having Nic in Paris reminded me of how much I also cherish the ability to share this city with others.

The Artist's Way

2006-01-03T08:37:00.000+01:00

When I arrived in Paris back in May, I had the whole month to myself (whether I wanted to be alone or not, I really had no choice!). I came with "The Artist's Way," a creativity-unblocking therapy book, broken down into weeks with readings and activities. I didn't complete all 14 weeks, and I'm thinking of returning to it for a good jump-start to the new year BUT, the point is that I just went back and read excerpts from the journal I kept while doing it. And I want to share this particular exercise, as my responses (from over 6 months ago) just brought me new insight. Perhaps somebody else will find it interesting, revealing, or helpful...

In a journal or separate piece of paper, complete the following sentences. Expand on them if necessary:

My favorite childhood toy was
My favorite childhood game was
The best movie I saw as a kid was
I don't do it much, but I enjoy
If I could lighten up a little, I'd
If it weren't too late, I'd
My favorite musical instrument is
Taking time out for myself is
I am afraid that if I start dreaming, I might abandon
I secretly enjoy
If I had had the perfect childhood, I'd
If it didn't sound so crazy, I'd
Learning to trust myself takes
My most cheer-up music is
My favorite way to dress is

Ringing in 2006 in Paris

2006-01-02T07:41:00.000+01:00

A New Year's celebration with cuban beads and plans for a book club...dancing and "bringing on the coupes" (coupes of champagne, that is!)....fois gras, pommes frites, creme brule... moving from the cafe to another restaurant/bar to meet up with more friends for more dancing and more champagne... singing "In a little While" after "My Humps," and many hugs and reflections of of why 2005 was a good year. For me, the night was a happy reminder of good decisions I made last year. And when I finally arrived in my apartment after 7:30 this morning, I realized how much truly has changed in my life this past year. And, not surprisingly, I've done a fair amount of reflecting and writing about changes and time today...but overall, I hope that 2006 is equally momentous and growth-inspiring. But I also plan to make 2006 a year with as much fun as I'm having now!

The photos: 1. Sly dancing to Madonna's "Hung Up". 2. Stephanie, Molly's dad (with Steph and Sly's dog), Laetitia (Yann's sister), Edith, and me. 3. Molly, Edith and I....Brooklyn, LA, and Chicago. 4. Yann, David and Victor (and Molly's dad...sorta in the picture!).

Being bored Blows

2005-12-30T06:35:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-28T22:55:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-25T08:30:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-20T04:53:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-17T23:03:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-16T21:38:00.000+01:00

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

2005-11-29T20:26:00.000+01:00

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

2005-11-21T10:39:00.000+01:00

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