Another Sunday

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

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...

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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 crème brulé. 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

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

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

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...

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

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.