Waterfall Outside my Window

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!

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

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

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

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!)

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

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

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

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

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

Bright but not White

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

I will still be Joyeux this Noel

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

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

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

An Unabashed Approach

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

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

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

The cutest Normand ever

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

About time

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

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

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

Thanksgiving and Beyond

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random List

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

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

Joyful Girl

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

Common Ground

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

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

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

Happier than the Morning Sun

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

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