The Hibernation

When I began this blog I wasn't prepared for the path my life would take. Over the past year I have somehow been able to hold back the tides of reality and live my own upside down version of the “Summer of George.” Though silent for several months, when I resurrected it at the tail end of December it became my outlet and obsession while in France. Once again on my return to the states this blog has fallen silent—partly out of confusion at my new and “normal” life and partly from my qualms with running a travel blog while no longer abroad.

To remedy this (and to satisfy all five of my “readers”), I've decided to start my “Arkansan at Home” blog, titled Warm Evenings. The purpose is largely to satisfy myself—retaining the outlet and obsession while at home. Since reality has burst the levies of my life, the frequency with which I'll be able to post shall be limited. I'm still trying to figure out how to balance my life...how to balance “reality,” but my aim is once a week.

While this blog had an overarching theme, it never had a day to day thread connecting each post other than what was in my head. This will be roughly the same with minor tweaks. Unfortunately Arkansas might prove to be a harder sell than Paris (instead of a post about visiting the Louvre you'll get one about visiting the snow cone stand).

I selected the title from a Gram Parsons song of the same name and my personal favorite Parsons tune. For me, the phrase itself also hearkens back to innocent summers, to a place in the haze of memory. Perhaps it's just my own fancy, but since I'm back in the place of my birth and since summer is now upon us I figured it worked. I can't promise what will come, but I can promise the honesty of the words that will follow. Hopefully the Warm Evenings header quote from Walker Percy proves itself true for me.

An Arkansan at Home

Returns are curious affairs. Like most things in our life they seem so much more magnificent in our own minds than they are in reality. By no means did I consider myself a returning Caesar. I had no visions of parades or red carpet welcomes but I must confess that my return has left me a bit dismayed.

Thoreau claimed "most men lived lives of quiet desperation." One always seems to create a fetish out of memory and expectation. Our reminisces are always fonder in mind than in practice. Our expectations of the future are always grander than what they in truth will become. Hope for something greater is upheld in the face of despair. One's hope and one's imaginary future is an easy handle to grasp in a foreign land, where possibilities might seem boundless.

Back at home, an Arkansan no longer abroad, reality has quickly settled in around me and this boundless future proves harder to find. As I navigate the pathways of normalcy, I slog on like Mr. Thomas, quietly raging against that dying light.

The Flights

I've had a history with U.S. customs. Each time I've returned to our nation after spending time abroad I've been detained several hours. Reasons for this have varied depending on who I am talking to. The first time it occurred it was because I have a "common" name. I was given the impression that they were worried someone (read terrorist) could sneak in to the country using my name since it was so "common." For those that know me (blond and white), this seems like it would be a bit obvious. Fortunately (or not), we have a fairly thorough unit manning our borders.

I was fairly surprised when it happened a second time. The given excuse that time was that they were "looking for someone with my name." One would assume that since I had been previously detained a few months prior that their computers would denote this and it would be an easily resolvable affair. Not only was I wrong but I was chastized when, quoting the previous officer, I asked a new officer why I was detained. That, I was informed, was none of my business and no officer should be giving out reasons for my detention. My desire to return home was greater than that which wanted to partake in a sarcastic retort. Being at this officer's discretion I rightly figured the better way was the higher path and kept silent.

These incidences have created an apprehension within me. I expect to be stopped by customs and thus have to plan for it. When I was booking my return flights I spent $40 more to take a later connecting flight in Newark because I was afraid I wouldn't have made it through customs yet. This in turn created another series of events to which I will shortly return.

My voyage home was far from a staid affair. I flew home on Air India. I thought it was odd that they had a flight from Paris to Newark but the ticket was the cheapest available so I took it. Naturally it never dawned on me that the flight was Mumbai to Newark and Paris was the refueling stop to pick up more passengers and let others off. For as unforgiving as I was about flying on Air India (one of my fears was that they'd only have Bollywood movies on the flight), it turned out pretty cool, which just goes to show you what preconceptions are good for. My rating system might be different from others but when you have movies like Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, and Dial M for Murder to choose from on your in flight movie screen, you're running a damn fine airline. The fact that the seats were comfortable and the food was good were just added niceties next to Bogie.

Since I had allowed myself extra time to get through customs without missing my flight, it of course turned out to be a breeze. I made it through everything and was waiting for my next flight no more than an hour after I landed. I got to sit in New Jersey for the next two hours waiting on my Air Tran flight to Atlanta and then on to Dallas.

Continuing on with my life's trend, my flight from Newark was late. The two hour wait turned into almost three and a half (this was particularly unnerving since I could have taken an earlier flight to Dallas via Charlotte on U.S. Airways). Miracle of miracles, however, I made my 11PM connecting flight to Dallas after landing in Atlanta at 10:47PM. It was my first time to run in an airport. No one had any stop watches out but, I was like the wind that night. The last thing I wanted was to spend the night in Atlanta's airport after being awake for 24 hours. I just wanted to get home as scheduled.

When I landed in Dallas I didn't have a high school band waiting for me playing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow." It was just my sister. After being away for so long, Sarah was a very comforting sight even without a brass section.

Thoughts Before Returning

Would it be cliche to say emptiness pervades my entire being, that I'm alone inside myself and in the world around me? Fault me for saying it but there's the truth. I'm sitting in the Roissy airport with only a newspaper and a sandwich for comfort. Where are the loving arms I know? Where are the smiling faces I once knew?

I'm broken and drained--split equally between the love I have in Paris and the comfort of home. Neither of us expected the end to be like this. Neither of us ever wanted it but, as so often happens in life, we lived the days that were given to us--dark and hollow as they were.

I live with regrets. Regret that I couldn't stay longer to comfort my love. Regret for the things we put off only to have fate put them off for us ever longer. I want to believe I will be back. I want to again look out a window and see the glittering glamor of Eiffel's tower. Whether anything follows from this day is a guess only father time can make. So, I take comfort in thoughts and memories. Broken as I am inside, I try instead to concentrate on the sandwich and paper in front of me. It's all anybody can really do.

May He Find Peace

A tragedy has struck. Clint Sezalory, Morgane's brother, died in a hospital in Varanasi, a city in northeastern India on Friday. We are all trying to cope with the sudden loss of such a unique person. There are countless emotions that accompany the passing of a loved one, emotions I could never dream of being able to properly convey. What has made this particular passing evermore difficult is the thought that it has occurred so far from home and so far from family. Though it is not something I can accomplish with mere words, what follows below is an attempt to assuage not only my own grief but to offer a bit of relief to those who loved him dearest.

Varanasi is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world and famous the world over for it's religious significance for Hindus. It is on the banks of the Ganges that the believers go to wash away their sins. As one of the most important pilgrimages a Hindu can make, it is believed to be auspicious to die in Varanasi. Your soul is granted a release from its transmigrations.

Clint was a born adventurer. Though he passed just over a week after his 25th birthday, he had already seen more of the world than the billions who out of fear, poverty, or ignorance are too unfortunate to have that chance. He lived in Africa as a child, he had traversed two continents by rail (Paris to Peking), he had explored the wonders of Big Bend in Texas, and was almost finished with his three month exploration of the sub-continent when he fell ill. He was never afraid of the unknown; he knew no personal limits.

Clint's favorite comic book character was the infamous Tintin, a boy who embarks on journeys throughout the world. He keeps a figurine of Tintin on his desk, one that I have seen every day I have been here in Paris without a second thought. At some point soon after his passing I realized that that statue represents Clint to me and it will always be how I remember him—confidently stepping forward with his eyes on the horizon, ready to greet what's around the bend.


"Somewhere out across the Great Divide
Where the sky is wide and the clouds are few
A man can see his way clear to the light
Just hold on tight, that's all you got to do"

Translating Titles

There are American influences everywhere in Paris. I don't mean "everywhere" in the sense that France has lost its unique cultural identity, far from it. What I mean is that American life has wedged its way into the day to day life of the French. This is evidenced somewhat constructively in the current events coverage (I'm constantly asked for my thoughts on the Presidential race) though less so in the baser realm of pop culture, particularly movies.

Films that are chosen for wide screen release here have a variety of tasks to complete before their debut. Perhaps the most obvious is the subtitling and/or dubbing work necessary before release. If they are of the giant blockbuster kind (National Treasure) or inane comedy (Wild Hogs) then a dubbed version must be created to accompany (or in many cases, replace) the original version. This is more a financial decision than anything else. Unless the movie is expected to appeal to the broadest base of the population then the expense of employing voice actors won't occur.

To me, the true art within the release process is the film's title. There are two broad categories of titles--altered and unaltered. On the occasions a film doesn't warrant a title change it is always a result of its simplicity. If a title is easy for the French to pronounce themselves then the name stays (ex: Gone Baby Gone, This is England). I find these to be the most interesting because even though they are "easy" to pronounce for French speakers the words generally sound quite different than when they fall out of my mouth. (Though not films this was made clear the other day when I went to the tabac to buy cigarettes for two of Morgane's friends. I ended up having to just point at the packs of American Spirits and "Fee-Leep More-ees" --Phillip Morris).

Of the altered titles there are three kinds. First is the direct translation, which is perhaps the most common (Be Kind Rewind/Soyez Sympas Rebombinez). Next is a complete title change. This is supposed to make the film more appealing and approachable for the French market. As such, upon French release, The Good Shepard is transformed into Raisons D'Etat (Reasons of State) and The Other Boleyn Girl is morphed into Deux Soeurs Pour un Roi (Two sisters for one king).

Lastly, the most peculiar naming method has to be the rare movie that retains an English language title but is different than the original. What first caught my attention to this particular category were posters I've seen plastered across the city advertising Sexy Dance 2. Apart from the amusement I derived from seeing a movie called Sexy Dance 2 on the market, I was eventually prodded into some investigatory work on the internet. This causality occurred when I saw an advertisement for another equally intellectual offering, Never Back Down, which was billed as "Par Les Réalisateurs de Sexy Dance" (from the directors of Sexy Dance). I figured if this "Sexy Dance" was big enough to spawn not only a sequel but cross advertisements, I needed to get some answers. What I found out was that I'm more out of touch than I realized. The original title, Step Up didn't ring any bells either.
I never expected to keep up with adolescent tastes, I'm just shocked that it has already happened. Perhaps I should start spending more time at the mall.

A British Bent

Strangely enough my life in France has lately been dominated by the not always so friendly neighbor, Great Britain. English is my native language. My biggest news source here is the BBC world. As a person residing abroad, neither of these vestiges of British imperialism should be considered anything but natural. They are so downright common that it'd be strange to have it any other way.

Seemingly conscious choices have marked the shift from the normal day to day life as an English speaker to a complete inundation of Britannia. In the past couple of weeks I've not only become somewhat addicted to reading the Guardian but I've also begun to read A People's History of England by A.L. Morton, a Marxist intellectual from Suffolk. The former can be easily explained or excused since the Guardian is an award winning paper. Since I (and in many ways the world as well) have no real use for communism, reading a 1938 Marxist interpretation of England's history up until WWI would seem a bit pointless. Discounting the outmoded nature of the book (historically and politically), it has turned out to be an interesting read.

Adding to my current reading choices are my film choices. It is a bit misleading to say "I" since the choices have been as much mine as they have been Morgane's. Therefore our Britannic lean in film can be termed a "we" instead of a "me." We've had a whirlwind tour of the United Kingdom of late. We've inundated ourselves with 16th century dramas, one great (Elizabeth) and two decent (The Other Boleyn Girl, Elizabeth-The Golden Age). Robert Altman transported us back to another time with his English manor mystery Gosford Park while Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett reminded us why they are two of the best in the business with Notes On a Scandal, a heartbreaking (and at times uncomfortable) peek into solitude and human relations.

Though all of these things have conspired to give my time here a decidedly British tilt, it was not something I set about on my own. My first inclination was that it perhaps was just a phase, a new penchant for something beyond the "known". This would seem logical if I had consciously conspired to consume the culture of my own accord. Though each choice was itself conscious, the larger motif was never purposely set upon.

When I experience culture it is generally through the English language. In America I can experience foreign locales and other worlds because although the medium might be foreign the explanation or subtitles will always be English. Despite the fact that my French has improved quite a bit, I'm still unable to easily read French for pleasure and still struggle to keep up during French films. Amidst it all it struck me that each passing day here brings to me more and more a feeling of "home" and of belonging. Often I still feel wholly separate and am still very much an outsider but, each time I pop into a shop or take the train into town it feels less so. Each day I spend in France it becomes less of an oddity and more of a home. And thus the subconscious reasoning behind my recent British tilt became apparent. As France became a home, British culture replaced it as an escape. Through the common tongue it has allowed the chance to once again experience a separate world.

Lafayette & the Language of Oppression

I've never given much thought to the "why" of my language. I've always marked it down as the natural outcome of Britain defeating France in the French-Indian war. This assumption was verbally attacked by a pious Catholic gentleman a few weeks ago when Morgane and I went to visit the grave of General Lafayette at Picpus Cemetery.

A guillotine was set up on what is now Place de la Nation, just a few minutes from the cemetery. An average of fifty-five people a day lost their life at the guillotine from mid June to late July in 1794. Over 1200 bodies were dumped in a nearby garden. Three years later this garden was secretly purchased by a princess whose brother was interred in one of the mass graves. Another group of families bought additional adjoining land in 1803 to create the cemetery that stands today. Burial in the cemetery is, I believe, wholly reserved to relatives of those interred in the mass graves.

Overseen by the sisters of the Sacred Heart, Picpus remains the largest private cemetery in Paris. There is also a fairly large church attached to the cemetery that houses a small station of Vierge de la Paix (virgin of the peace) that supposedly cured the Sun King from an illness and now attracts devout pilgrims. The sisters only open the graveyard in the afternoon but with some convincing (it was my "last day" in Paris) and a few extra euros, Morgane was able to get a caretaker to let us in.

It was on our walk across the courtyard towards the cemetery gate that the caretaker began his discourse on how strange it was that Americans spoke English. Instead, he insisted, we should be speaking Cherokee or even French. My feeble attempt at telling him that I'd speak French if they had been successful in the Seven Years War was met with a confused look. Shaking off my counter argument, he then went on to inform us that America was the only country that spoke the language of the oppressor. He evidently wasn't privy to the fact that the vast majority of the "original" inhabitants/colonists were native English speakers. Nor, I suppose, was he familiar with the categorical extermination of the native population whilst "subduing" them--hence no Cherokee. Declining an opportunity to educate, I sensed the easier route was through acquiescence. I smiled, nodded, and stepped into the graveyard.

The graveyard itself turned out to be a vast spot of quietude, the antithesis of the verbose man who watches over it. Perhaps visiting Lafayette's grave is an odd thing to do in Paris but, he has long been a favorite of mine (having historical "favorites" is one of the perks of being a history geek) so it was something that I had been wanting to see for quite some time. As a result of his military and monetary support, Lafayette and his descendants were granted American citizenship in perpetuity. As a way of illustrating his eternal support of America, Lafayette was buried in American soil.

Despite his continued dedication to the struggle of equality, despite the fact that throughout the U.S. there are at least 50 towns and counties named in his honor, he is largely a forgotten entity as a freedom fighter. Instead, it has become "hip" to revere a practitioner of torture and brutality thanks to an iconic photo. I know it's not going to look as cool on my key chain but I'll take the former marquis any day.

Roller Cops Against Tibet

Some of you have perhaps already heard about the massive demonstrations in Paris today during the Olympic Torch relay. There were also counter demonstrations by pro-Chinese supporters as well. This naturally led to a few clashes at various points between the Tibetan/anti-China supporters and the pro-China demonstrators.

The governmental response to the torch visit was to treat it as if it were a visiting head of state. This naturally required roller cops. I know these demonstrations were a serious matter. Their seriousness is exactly why I bring this up in the first place. Why on earth do you surround the torch with roller cops? Honestly, what can they do? Unless they have an amazing braking or locking device on the skates they have absolutely no leverage when engaging a subject and are thus worthless. They obviously had plenty of other people protecting the flame on foot, as you can see here:



It still leaves me wondering who does the security planning here. There were several occasions when protesters were within inches of the flame bearer before they were taken down. Eventually the decision was reached that it would be better to put the flame on a bus and surround it with roller cops for the duration of the journey to Stade Charlety.

Naturally I don't want to point fingers and make accusations but it seems as if there was some governmental collusion or at the very least acquiescence with the demonstrators. Part of me hopes that this is the case, otherwise it'd be a bit worrisome to know that demonstrators could easily unfurl banners and flags like the one below on the walls of City Hall, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame. (As you will notice, the French still use the Postal Map Romanization method for Chinese cities, so Beijing is still known as Peking here)



I suppose the real question is: what is more disturbing as a resident? The ability of demonstrators to infiltrate national monuments or the presence of roller cops as guardians of your safety?

Top 5 Churches

I'm a list maker. One could blame it on my own internal rigidness, my desire to always know what's what and where each thing stands in my own mind. Perhaps because I am perpetually failing to organize my own life I resort to organizing other things. Or again it could just be a reflection of my own love for the ultimate list maker book & film, High Fidelity. The protagonist of which, no surprise, can't figure out his own life but can figure out what he likes. Since it is Sunday and since I have a thing for cathedrals, I've created a list of my favorite churches in France.

St. Etienne du Mont is located just to the rear of the Pantheon on its northeast corner. When I first stumbled (if it's possible to stumble onto anything so close to a giant national monument) across the cathedral this past summer I was astounded. When I revisited a few weeks ago I was astounded again. I've read quite a few Paris guidebooks and never seen mention of this majestic church. It is by far my favorite. If it's possible to put a finger on why it ranks so highly I would venture that it is its simplicity. This is a somewhat paradoxical word to use with something this ornate but you can judge for yourself.



St. Chappelle has already been a subject of a post here before. (If you want to read about it and see the pictures, click here: Words and Wonders ) In size it is simple but the simplicity of size is compensated for in the majesty of its stained glass windows.

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres



Initially I wavered between restricting the list to just churches in Paris or all of France. I decided to opt for France expressly so it would allow me to include the cathedral in Chartres. The cathedral is about 45 minutes west by southwest of Paris. It sits atop a hill overlooking the city that surrounds it, a mammoth manifestation of devotion and worship. My favorite aspect of the cathedral is the view from the yard in the rear of the church.

Basilique Saint-Denis



Competing in size and fame with the Cathedral at Chartres is the Basilique Saint-Denis which is located in a banlieue of the same name north of Paris. There are two reasons why this particular church is in the Top 5, one obvious and the other not so obvious. First the obvious: It houses the tombs of all but three French monarchs from 496AD onward. As a history lover, how could this not earn a place in my top five?



It is, as you can see, not lacking in beauty. Outside the church grounds is the impetus for the other reason I like the church. Saint-Denis is now a largely Muslim community with around 40 percent of the population being non-natives. Unfortunately it also suffers from the highest crime rate in France. When Morgane and I went to visit it a few weeks ago, we had to walk about a half mile from where we parked to the basilique. Our path lead us through a lively pedestrian market avenue which, except for the biting cold, reminded us both more of a lively Moroccan souk than a French avenue. The clash between the past and the present is what adds to the allure of this massive church.

For number five I'm going to drop "a sly declaration of new classic status." What's a list without a curveball? (that's me painting at the bottom of the picture)

St Alexander Nevsky Cathedral



Located at the corner of rue Daru and rue Pierre le Grand in the heart of "little Russia," this mid 19th century church is quite a spectacle. There are a few things that made this stick out to me. Foremost is that the church is very close to my favorite area of Paris. Secondly, it's the only Russian Orthodox church I've had the pleasure of visiting. For every similarity with other churches I've seen there are just as many differences. Next to the gilded wealth of the other churches on the list, it is bare. But within the plain austerity is the true beauty of the cathedral.

Since there is no way of working it into the list, I'll just label this as an honorable mention.



This is a pulpit sculpted out of wood by H.F.Verbruggen in 1699 for St. Michael and Gudula Cathedral in Brussels. Hands down not only one of the scariest things I could imagine seeing as a child in church but also one of the coolest and most amazing pieces of art I've seen in my life.

Here's a better image of the scene (Adam and Eve being cast out of Paradise)--



I'm not so sure this post will qualify as an adequate excuse for skipping church today but, it might.

Tides of Time

Today proved to be a new lesson in the constantly changing face of Paris. Rome is the "eternal city" however, the same can be said of any iconic city. Their images make them eternal. Of course there are images associated with every location the world over--China has its wall, London its clock, Egypt its pyramids, and New York its statue. There is the Black Forest of Germany, the hills of San Fransisco, the cliffs of Dover, and the fjords of Norway. Paris has its tower.

What's lost among the images is the true identity of a place. This identity is a constant evolution, an immortal game of growth and reduction. It's like children testing water--one timidly sticks a toe in while one dives head first only to run back out. Underneath our picture, each place in the world is in constant motion with others and with itself.

Paris is no different. What better proof of this than the Eiffel Tower itself? In a city filled with statues, churches, museums, and monuments, in a city whose history spans thousands of years--a creation that is only 119 years old has become the signature image. It was widely reviled upon release and has since become the most visited monument in the world. This is proof enough of the changes that can be wrought on minds and cities alike.

This all became quite apparent to me at lunch. Today was incredibly sunny and not wholly unlike summer. When I was here this past summer Morgane and I stayed in the 17th near the Villiers metro. Looking to take advantage of the weather Morgane and I had decided to spend a few hours in the sun at Park Monceau before having lunch at Le Bistrot du Passage. Every other citizen of Paris seemed to have the same idea as the park was teeming with people by noon.

Heading to lunch down Boulevard de Courcelles and onto Boulevard des Batignolles, I was sent back eleven months. Though shy of a year it seemed longer in my mind. I thought of the wide-eyed person I was that first night in Paris. Walking next to an unbelievably gorgeous woman and making our way to the top of Montmartre. How could I not question the reality of my situation? After descending Montmartre we strolled along the avenues in the deepening twilight before having dinner at Le Bistrot du Passage. Perhaps I was tempting fate by revisiting a memory like that.

Upon first arriving at the restaurant we weren't certain it was the same place. Everything seemed so different, so sterile in comparison to the cozy warmth we remembered. The name was the same so we went inside. Through talking with one of the owners we found out that they had expanded, renovated, and remodeled since our last visit but, believe it or not, he remembered us from our first visit (this says something either about the deep "fish out of water" impression I must have given that first night or perhaps more likely, the hold my girlfriend has over the memory of a man). Where once there was an intimate ambiance and unfettered originality there is now a calculated attempt at unadorned chic. A changed decor and a changed perception aside, the food was unchanged from our first visit: delicious.

If anything, visiting the restaurant only heightened the memory of my first night in Paris. More so than before it has become one of those faraway and foggy memories filled with happiness and longing for which we all strive. Though the city is constantly changing, Paris itself has become more tangible to me. At some point along the way it has ceased to be an obscure myth and became life. This makes those distant memories all the more sweeter than before.

Things I Saw in Barcelona

Since I've already given a broad summation of my thoughts on Barcelona I'm going to offer a few pictures and light thoughts on particular places in Barcelona. I'm always being asked to post pictures to help counteract my more verbose nature. So, with that in mind:

Sagrada Familia



This was probably the site I was most excited about seeing in Barcelona. Though I don't think my expectations were artificially high, I was a little disappointed with the site. Much like Mont St. Michel, this was something better seen from afar. Currently there is a project under way to finish building the church with 2026 (100 year anniversary of Gaudi's death) being the year of completion. Scaffolding could take away from the most magnificent of facades and if it had been limited to this it would still probably have been fine. What pushed me on over the edge wasn't the crowds or the scaffolding but the entry fee. The fee by itself wasn't exactly exorbitant but when the entire interior of the church is covered in construction barriers and other materials, and the spectacle of interest is thus limited to architects, engineers, and contractors, then the fee becomes so. What made this even more disappointing is the fact that the "interior" construction was supposed to be completed and the current work was finishing the final four apostle towers. Perhaps it is unfair of me to complain since the finished product will (hopefully) be a wonder to see.

Park Guell





Park Guell, much like Sagrada Familia, is an amazing sight in its own right. Some of the allure is however lost when you are one amongst a thousand trying to see the famous sight. And as I said previously, maybe ten of those thousand weren't tourists. Crowded or not, it was a surreal park. I've never experienced an artist or architect that could create such a feel of another place or time yet still keep it so rooted in the reality of the present.



Morgane and I were staying on Rambla de Catalunya, two blocks north of Placa de Catalunya. This put us in the middle of the city and within easy distances of most of the major sights in Barcelona. Apart from the great location, the apartment itself was also very cool. The one drawback was that the foyer of the apartment building smelled like trash. But, when you have a rooftop terrace and a great room, it isn't much of a drawback at all.

La Rambla



There have been plenty of changes to this famous pedestrian thoroughfare over the years and its a far cry from the avenue Mr. Orwell walked along. As a history geek it was cool to stroll down Las Ramblas trying to imagine what it was like during the civil war--the flags of anarchists and communists hanging from buildings, the deterioration and militarization of the street (and city) as the anti-fascist forces devolved into internecine fighting, "Trotskyists" skulking about at night. Even with my overly excited imagination it was a task trying to visualize any of this when the avenue was crowded with people.

Barceloneta





There is a neighborhood that juts out into the sea, south and east of the Barrio Gotica and directly east of the old shipyards called Barceloneta. It was created in the 18th century as a replacement neighborhood for the one razed to make way for army barracks (now the sight of Ciutadella Park just north and east of the neighborhood. It is somewhat removed from the rest of the city and gives it the feel of almost being a separate civic entity. Morgane and I walked through the neighborhood on our first day in Barcelona and I was unable to find a neighborhood I liked more in the days that followed. Morgane is certain the Barceloneta neighborhood was the location used for "The Spanish Apartment" (L'Auberge Espagnol)--which, if you have any interest in Barcelona (or good movies) and don't mind subtitles, I highly recommend. It's been several years since I've seen it but, it was a cool film.

Last, but not least, the man who started it all:



Christopher Columbus. At the end of the Las Ramblas, where the avenue finally tumbles into the coast, there is an absolutely gargantuan statue honoring Columbus. To me it is a metaphor not only for the city but for Catalonia: large, proud, and accessible.

The Birds and The B's

Yesterday was, as I told Morgane, "the most important day of the year." Unfortunately upon our return from Barcelona Monday morning I was unable to discover any semblance of care, concern, or curiosity in the faces of the Parisians that passed us by. There certainly wasn't anyone loading up on baguettes and brie for the pre-game parties. No one seemed to be rushing home from work to watch the "Lead-Off Man." Though the populous seemed not to care, Opening Day had finally arrived.

Always true to form, the Cubbies strung me out again. I don't know how they do it but they always seem to know the best way to destroy a fan. Leave it to Chicago to give you eight strong innings, have a former ace cum closer give up three runs in the ninth, have the deficit erased/witness the birth of a new star (Kosuke Fukedome--curtain called in his first game), only to lose the game again in the 10th courtesy of another member of our strong pen. There are enough story lines for a week in each game.

As downtrodden as I was going to bed late last night after the loss, there were plenty of things to be happy about. Topping the list is Mr. Fukedome. With the way he played yesterday, he is on a short path to my new favorite Cub (he'd have to turn in an identical performance day-in-day-out for the rest of the year to oust my fellow Arkansan, Torii Hunter, from his spot as my favorite MLB player). There of course is also the sheer pleasure of having baseball on again. Being able to see web gems, box scores, and double steals for the next six months is enough to temper any Opening Day loss.

Even with the loss, even though they are in last place after day one, it is a long season (for most of my friends the length is interminable). But in its length there is countless opportunities. There will continue to be chances to make up for day one, countless chances to make fans forget your former glories as well as your errs. Mr. Pope certainly didn't intend for it to become bywords for my chosen passion but, "hope springs eternal" has become just that. Crack open a Budweiser for Harry and hope as I hope: That this, one hundred years in, might just be the year for my boys. That spring turns to summer and summer to fall with ne'er a Cubbies slip.

Back from Barcelona

It is hard to separate the Barcelona of imagination with the experience of the city itself. There's a myth of Barcelona. This isn't to say that the city is lacking in any way just that the city doesn't suffer from lack of praise. For residents and visitors alike it is a city where ease is the expectation instead of a reward or a short lived pleasure. A place where "cool" sprouts up from the ground like a palm tree and flowers the city; a destination that enables the visitor to feel that they too can revel in the unique aura that towers over the city.

While hip post-communist destinations in eastern Europe abound, they are largely reserved to the summer hordes. Barcelona, for all intents and purposes, is a year round destination. It's unique position nestled between the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees dictate a certain level of coolness through the winter and spring but nowhere near as cold as a dreary March day in London, or a wind swept Krakow. Barcelona is a vibrant city destination where both culture and relative warmth remain at your fingertips. Save for parts of Italy, this combination grants it a unique position known nowhere else in Europe.

Through my few days there, the tourist appeal has been quite evident. Unfortunately this evidence was found not in the monuments and museums but in the sheer number of like minded people traipsing through the city. Whether it be hordes of Scots rollicking through the Barrio Gotica looking for a night of revelry or the masses descending on the Sagrada Familia--the city witnessed was one witnessed by everyone else.

Though Paris trumps in sheer number of visitors, Barcelona is not far behind. I've never been to a place whose visitors are so apart from the city itself--that stick out from the fabric of daily life so much. Personally I attribute this to two factors. First I think it is a reflection on our own ordered and guided lives contrasting so noticeably against the laid back nature of the city and its residents. Secondly, and perhaps more likely, it is a reflection of the things we come to see. In Paris the monuments are generally much older and are more cohesively integrated within the fabric of the city's daily life. The man with the biggest mark on Paris, Baron Haussmann, helped propagate a city of wide boulevards and grand sight lines. Essentially he transformed a hodge podge medieval city in the systematic and sweeping spectacle we all know today. While Barcelona certainly has wide avenues it retains a certain disparateness in its architecture which in turn creates a dissonance between the Barcelona of daily life and the one seen by the visitor. The man with the greatest mark on Barcelona, Antoni Gaudi, had a vast imagination and great skill. Both of these attributes are easily visible to anyone who may happen across his work. Whereas Haussman's mark on Paris was largely reshaping an existing entity into conformity, Gaudi's mark on Barcelona was one of creation. This has spawned huge tourist attractions in quiet areas. For instance, when you visit the Tuilleries in Paris you are still surrounded by the daily life of a major capital. Contrasting this is Gaudi's famous park in Barcelona. Park Guell is so disconnected from the city itself that the only possible visitors are those tourists making a point to see the planned wonderland and take their turn on his undulating benches.

Not until my last day in the city did I feel somewhat apart from the transient and a piece of the tangible. Courtesy of the magnificent sun, I also realized on the last day what had been missing on the previous two days of the trip. Morgane and I had dropped our bag at the train station and set out to find a spot in the sun. We had ostensibly been walking towards a park but belatedly realized our direction was wrong. This turned out to be one of our better "decisions" of the weekend. We found a small bench in a city park that was populated by Iberians instead of visitors and spent the afternoon lazing in the sun.

On our walk to the serendipitous park we were treated to the bizarre sight of an adult marching band of mixed age and sex playing classic Motown hits. Accompanying the band were young girls (8-10 yrs old) learning a pompom routine. The music, the joy everyone seemed to be deriving from the playing and performing, the sun, the park, and the oddity itself all came together in a weird harmony to provide the perfect finale to our Barcelona weekend.

The Days Behind and The Days Ahead

I've admittedly been a bit lax lately and haven't taken the time to recount the activities of the past few days. Unfortunately now that I want to, I don't have the time. Morgane and I are off to Barcelona for a couple of days (This will be my first departure from Orly that didn't require a pre-dawn wake up call).

Since this will be a fairly quick trip I'm unlikely to take/have time to visit any internet cafes. Therefore there is the possibility that the Arkansan will be silent for several days.

I'm very excited about seeing Barcelona. For as staid a person as I am, I enjoy vibrant cultures/lands. I suppose I envy the general looseness, and have a drive to see or be a part of it in the vain hope that it might rub off on me. Growing up in school there were always stupid posters hanging on teachers walls (apologies to all my friends in the teaching field) that had things like cats dangling from a poll saying, "Hang in there!" (Hopefully I wasn't the only one subjected to this sort of stuff) There was one I remember with Garfield where he had books tied to him, the caption read: "Learning by Osmosis." If something could sum up my desire to experience vibrant cultures it would be that poster. Even if my attempt is misguided and doomed to fail, it's at least an honest desire. Perhaps I'll even be lucky enough to have some of it rub off on me.

My day with the Kings of France, my day with the first freedom fighter, and my coming days in Spain will have to wait until I return to be heard. I'm off to the airport.

Easter Monday

Yesterday was a national holiday here. I haven't been able to figure out exactly what it is for. Actually, that is incorrect. It's an easter holiday. The part I've been confused about is why. France is an avowedly secular nation yet, Easter Monday is a national holiday. There doesn't seem to even be a pretend reason or excuse to make it seem less overtly preferential to a particular religion.

Growing up in America I was never exposed to an "Easter Monday." Since I am generally compelled to figure out that which is unknown to me, I quickly realized that the United States is one of the few "Christian" nations that do not observe Easter Monday as a national holiday. I was used to getting out of school on the Friday before Easter. Ostensibly it was always for "teacher's meetings" but the stated reason was nothing more than a veneer covering the real reason: Good Friday (Since I spent my entire childhood in the same school district in Arkansas, I can't really project my experience onto other areas but wouldn't be surprised if this practice is/was common).

Perhaps because I have too much time on my hands I'm allowed to think about these things but, as weird as a secular nation having an easter holiday is, it makes some sense here. First, having the national holiday on Good Friday would be very hard to rationalize. Having the national holiday fall on Easter Monday grants some explanatory leeway. Although the nation is ostensibly Roman Catholic, the rates of atheism and agnosticism are extremely high (polls vary but around 65% of the population claim one or the other) while the statistics for "belief" tend to run around a quarter of the population. But, as most of us probably know from our own experiences, there are two holidays that still bring out the most reluctant churchgoers: Easter and Christmas (I recall dreading these church services because my always punctual father would require us to leave for church an hour or two early to ensure we had a good seat...well, pew I guess). The same pattern holds true here as Easter continues to be a very important commercial and religious holiday weekend. Since Easter always falls on a Sunday, having a national holiday on Monday allows for families to get together across the nation and return home without the stress of the following work day hanging over them.

As per usual, it seems that I'm perpetually confused by this nation. Everything I encounter appears a bit odd or confusing on the surface. Invariably, on deeper inspection, these surface opinions tend to turn out to be quite logical. Unfortunately, in the ever changing face of France, logical rule is desperately needed. As the demographics and opinion of the nation continue to evolve, as politicians across the spectrum become more vocal about their own faith, can secularism in it's current state be the answer?

Fajitas in France

It's official. I woke up to the songs of migratory birds this morning instead of cooing pigeons. Completing the picture, the sun was pouring in through the window creating the urge to get up while my eyes were vainly trying to remind the rest of my body that we needed more sleep.

Last night, Julie and Maude (Morgane's best friends) came over for dinner à la Arkansan (also known as fajitas). Periodically during my stay here I've wanted Mexican food but it hasn't been too difficult to deal with (I suppose knowing it's not readily available helps to deal with the urges). Abstaining from Mexican food is probably strange to imagine for most of you since my love affair with the cuisine is well known.

Though I was a bit skeptical of the fajitas seasoning packet we got at Monoprix, I must say it turned out very well. My first bite was unbelievable. It was like I had been in the desert and didn't realize I was dying of thirst until I got the first drink from the oasis. I was ravenous. I think I swallowed two packed tortillas before the girls even began to fold their first.

My mind was sent back to a place that seems so far away in my mind--sitting around the backyard, dinner on the grill, and drinking sweaty bottles of Bud. Memories I guess I was too afraid to dwell on for fear of the funk that they might create. To corrupt Mr. Dahl--Funk or not, a little nostalgia, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.

The Rites of Spring

I've officially made it to spring. Morgane and I celebrated by engaging in the age old ritual of cleaning. As most of you already know, we are living in Clint's apartment while he travels in India (Clint is Morgane's brother). Clint is somewhat of a pack rat. He seems to have trouble letting go of anything (even if it's a Naughty by Nature single from 15 years ago). Despite this, the place has always been relatively clean though never approaching a state resembling order.

After living with a house full of guys for the past two years, a perpetual state of disorder is unfortunately something I've grown to accept. This is not the case with Morgane. Something within her took over and it was cleaning time. My portion of chores consisted of cleaning the kitchen and the shower room (a peculiar feature of most French abodes is the shower and the toilet being in separate rooms).

When you have a dirty rug, mat, or table cloth the common practice here is to shake it out the window. This is a quite natural practice exercised throughout the world. The difference is that here you are dumping whatever filth you've acquired on the table cloth out on the sidewalk below. I wouldn't want to be attacked by crumbs when I walk so I've been a little hesitant about aerial bombing the sidewalk four floors below. I have, however, slowly gotten used to it and don't think much about it anymore. This is largely because, save for one incident where I accidentally hit the windshield of a parked car with a grape while people were in it, I haven't had any problems. I've never heard any French curses directed at me after I shook out a table cloth or a floor rug.

As Winnie the Pooh might say, it's been very "blustery" here of late. Bursts of rain and wind have been followed by periods of sunshine, giving the past week an odd feel. I had shaken out the kitchen floor mat and left it hanging over the balcony railing while I cleaned the floor. Perhaps it was naive to leave it hanging without weighing it down--shades of Kramer dropping the blinds on the Commando 8 and declaring, "Installed!" This naturally proved to be true. As I was beginning to swab the floor a big gust of wind rattled the windows and started to take the mat with it just as I turned around. Unlike Kramer, my naivety didn't fall on a dog. Luckily it landed harmlessly on the sidewalk below as I hung over the balcony helplessly staring down at it. The startled looks of the bystanders quickly turned into smiles and laughter when they saw me pathetically staring down at the sidewalk below.

My mat adventures aside, the cleaning went well. Though there is still stuff bursting out of every closet, drawer, and shelf, the place has taken a more orderly shape--one that is befitting to the new season and the renewal it promises.

Lefty's Luck

Morgane and I were going to spend yesterday in the city. I was in charge of the itinerary. After a day studying my city maps I felt pretty confident about the day's plans. Our first stop was supposed to be the Gustave Moreau museum. After debarking our train at Saint Lazare, I successfully directed us to the museum by foot only to find it was closed because the staff was on strike. Bad luck.

We had an hour to kill before having lunch at Le Bistral, my friend Finney's place of employment, so we began walking north by northwest from rue la Rochefoucauld towards Place de Clichy and then through the neighborhoods of the eastern portions of the XVII arrondissement. Along the way we serendipitously stumbled upon several different shops that Morgane is going to be able to use for her business. Good luck.

After a quick stop at a boulangerie to get some bread to tide us over before lunch we headed down rue Legendre so I could poke my head into Ste. Marie des Batignolles. Closed for renovations. Bad luck. (This is of course compounded by the fact that I tried to look into Ste. Trinite on our way to the museum and it was also closed) We then continued our stroll along the edge of the park at Square des Batignolles before making our way back to Le Bistral for an early (by French standards) lunch.

Le Bistral is an experimental restaurant (progressive might be the appropriate word). So, compliments of Finney, we were able to bookend our brazed pork with cheese polenta lunch with an entree (appetizer)of fresh goat cheese with beet sauce and a dessert of caramel ice cream on top of green jello, garnished with a fried sugar cracker. I'm not up on haut cuisine but I found it oddly impressive and enjoyable so I'll put it down as good luck.

What made the restaurant experience doubly enjoyable was the appearance of Steeve Eastatof, the winner of the second season of Nouvelle Star (the French American Idol). I don't watch the American show let alone the French interpretation so I didn't recognize him. I was however completely bowled over by his dress. If you click on the link you can get an idea of what I'm talking about. I've never seen a 36 year old man dress like he did. He seems to be going through a severe identity crisis (Barring Halloween, what would possess a person to wear a Sheriff's badge clipped onto their sweater?). Unfortunately Steeve hasn't had much success in the recording industry (the French aren't as keen on manufactured stars as we are) and from what Morgane could gather of his conversation has been consistently misled by the show and his managerial team as to his commercial prospects since winning three years ago. While I derived humor from his appearance, I feel sorry for him more than anything else. He seems to be caught in an uncompromising web of distorted hopes and misplaced trust.

After lunch we walked back towards Place de Clichy to see Julia, a movie starring Tilda Swinton. Neither of us knew much about it. Since she just won an Oscar and it's been a few weeks since a decent English language movie as been released here we figured what the hell. Coincidentally, "what the hell" was also our post movie reaction. We sat through a neurotic, sprawling two hour film that follows an alcoholic woman as she kidnaps a kid, only to have him re-kidnapped from her in Tijauna before she gets the ransom. Bad luck.

Though there were a few disappointments along the way, when it was all said and done it was a good day. My perception of the events and of the luck were extraneous to the fact that Morgane was happy. What's a closed museum here and a bad movie there when your girlfriend is happy? It's like having a win against a ranked opponent when you factor it into your life RPI.

(For the non-basketball fans, the last sentence was my segue)

Yesterday was the first day in my life that I can remember not watching day one of the NCAA basketball tournament. It was the first time I've ever made picks without having formed ideas and opinions about teams. It was the first time I ever made picks without spending hours reading about the match ups.

Somewhere along the way my love for basketball faded. When I was in elementary school I wore, on alternating days, a matching Michigan jersey and shorts (I can't quite recall if it was Jalen Rose or Jimmy King's number) or a North Carolina one (Eric Montrose). Every day in fifth and sixth grade I wore one or the other. I even wore them during the winter. Periodically my mother was able to convince me to wear a jacket or sweatshirt but never pants. Thirty-five degree weather outside and I was in shorts riding my bike to school with Grant (he of course was sporting Razorback gear--Corliss). My mom wore those jerseys out having to wash them everyday. That fiendish passion slowly devolved these past few years to the point where the Big Dance itself was the only thing I got excited about during the season (maybe I have been unconsciously preparing myself for yesterday).

So I've blindly made my picks. In the course of which I also made the one decision in the past I never allowed for myself: letting fan-dom interfere with reality. I picked UT to win it all. This is far from a pipe-dream since UT is a number two seed. I was always too superstitious to actually pick the team I wanted to win (even if I thought they had a good shot). Since this is the first year I don't know my elbow from my asshole in the NCAA world, I guess it fits (Unfortunately mistakes have already been made--I'm pretty sure I had USC, as my dark horse, going to the final four in a yahoo group. Oops.)

This of course highlights the well known mantra that having the perfect bracket always boils down to luck. Proof of this was hilariously highlighted on ESPN two years ago during George Mason's improbable run to the Final Four. One of the gentleman to pick the Patriots to the Final Four thought he had been choosing George Washington. Upon realizing what he did, he said to himself, "Why not George Mason?" and picked them to make the Final Four.

Lefty Gomez once said he'd "rather be lucky than good." If there is a better adage to apply to bracketology or life, I haven't found one. For myself, I always feel as if I'm on the edge, getting tantalizingly close but never quite having the one little missing piece of luck that would thrust me from second or third in the bowl challenge or the tourney bracket into first. It's a situation many of us face in life and one that is irritatingly hard to deal with. It is like being hungry and seeing a meal take place within a house but you are stuck at the window staring, unable to figure out how to get inside. It's a position in which Mr.Eastatof seems to have found himself. He got a glimpse but can't figure out how to position himself at the table. Nor is it any different for teams that sit at home and watch a "cinderella" like George Mason have the ball bounce there way, knowing that it could as easily been them as was not them. Is it better to fail without ever knowing what awaits inside the house or to fail but catch a glimpse?

Categorical Cinema

One of my favorite things about living in Austin was the Paramount Theater, specifically their summer classic movie series. Virtually everyday from Memorial Day through Labor Day one has the opportunity to watch films on a big screen in a storied theater. I've spent countless hours there in the course of my Austin summers watching various movies, from Lawrence of Arabia and Army of Shadows to Dr. Strangelove and Silk Stockings.

There are many wonderful aspects of Paris (too many to count in fact) but, having theaters strung throughout the city showing old films ranks high on my list. As a tourist or short-term visitor this sort of thing probably won't appear on your to-do list but as an expat or mid to long range visitor like myself, it's one of the many positive aspects of life in Paris. Perhaps it's a somewhat minor perk but it's an enjoyable one nonetheless.

Yesterday morning Morgane and I took the train into the city to a theater on the Left Bank just north of the Pantheon. We were going to watch a 2PM showing of L'Affaire Ciceron (American title: 5 Fingers). The film is based on a true story and stars James Mason as a valet to the British Ambassador in neutral Turkey during WWII. I was pretty excited about seeing it. As it turned out, we were the only people in the theater that weren't alive when the film was released (1952). This, coupled with the fact that throughout the movie Morgane kept falling asleep on my shoulder, made me question how "cool" going to see old movies in the afternoon really was. (In Morgane's defense, it's very tiring trying to keep up with dialogue in a foreign language. Unfortunately I tend to forget how difficult it is for her despite my own situation since I am so used to speaking normally with her)

Hip or not, I loved the movie. Walking out of the theater it dawned on me that I had an overall movie type which was reflected in my enjoyment of the film. What I mean by a "type" is that one will enjoy just about any film given it has certain characteristics. This isn't necessarily one's favorite movies but a soft spot, a cinematic weak point for certain types of movies. For others, these tendencies can perhaps be more easily categorized into certain genres--there are lovers of samurai films, romantic comedies, silent films, etc. Unfortunately my own self-categorization is far from normal and even further from natural. Firstly, since I am a logophile of sorts, good dialogue is of the utmost importance. The other two characteristics are fairly interrelated--international intrigue and foreign locations, which isn't to say foreign films just films that occur in non-domestic locales. I suppose this is a fairly specific typecast for myself but it holds true. I can't think of a movie I've seen that has the stated characteristics that I didn't enjoy. However, if a film is lacking in certain aspects, my overall enjoyment decreases (i.e., The African Queen, The Bourne Supremacy, Patriot Games). So while I still derive enjoyment out of imperfect movies that possess the qualities of my movie type, they are unable to approach the enjoyment I derive from cinematic paradigms like Notorious, The Third Man, or The Bourne Identity that encapsulate all three categories in various forms.

My overly self-analytical mind again rears its ugly head. Someone told me once that it's necessary to know what you want in life. I've always struggled trying to figure out what it is I wanted but in the narrow slice of life that is cinema, I feel like I do. It's not much but it's a start.

An Alternate Anatomy

One defining feature between here and home is the movie store. The relationship between Paris and the cinema is no secret so I was quite surprised to find out that the movie rental store is a rarity here. Instead there are movie banks. In functionality and use they are very similar to ATM machines. You navigate through choices on a screen to find the rental you want. After you choose your title, the machine distributes the film out of a slot. When you need to return your disc the slot opens, you place the disc inside, a computer scans it and your account is charged for the rental.

The system sounds pretty nice and when it works properly it is indeed. The owner cuts down on overhead by not having a large store and multiple employees. The customer benefits from the accessibility and its ease of use. For me the large drawback is the browse. I love to browse—record stores, book shops, and movie stores. There's an inherent pleasure in seeing the product and making your choice at your own leisure. The ATM style of movie rentals is a cold replacement that puts the onus on the shopper, requiring him or her to know what they want before they come. Suggestions or help are completely absent in the process (not to mention the promotional pleasures one can find in things like free beer Tuesdays at I Luv Video in Austin).

Another consumer drawback is cost. It is four euros to rent a film for 24 hours. A minute late with your return and the price jumps to ten euros! Being used to 75 cent late fees, this was quite a shock. I don't know if the punishment fits the “crime” but I guess it works. I see people renting movies all the time, myself included.

With the above rant, I assume that one can deduce that my abstinence from television has been compensated by movies. I've always been a big moviegoer but here the habit seems to have multiplied a bit. Part of it might just be the allure of cinema in Paris. This would at least account for my trips to the cinema but leaves the question of DVDs unanswered. It occurred to me that this half of the equation might come from living with a person who shares my pleasure in films. Which, of course, is a far cry from living with one television and three guys whose taste didn't always run concurrent with mine.

As a change of pace, Morgane and I had started watching Grey's Anatomy on DVD. I know, I know. As a male I'm not supposed to openly admit to this sort of thing but I got hooked on the show at the tail end of season two (spring of 06). As a result my late conversion I had never seen the first season nor the majority of season two.

I guess it's a good thing that only seasons one and two are available at the cinebank because I think my body has begun to reject the show. Through dreams my mind has been telling me it has OD'ed on Grey's. It's natural to dream about things in your life, or even things not in your life. They're just dreams, right? But there comes a point when they stop being “just dreams” and become something more, something too frequent, too disturbingly natural, too real.

I started dreaming dreams populated with the characters of the show inserted into my daily life. Worse than that, we were all cohabiting in a large house that was eerily similar to my childhood home (without getting too deep, I assume this was a representation of the hospital since it serves as their “home” on the show). Several nights running now I've had to deal with the Christina's sarcasm, the chief's fatherly advice, and Meredith's whining fluctuations of perspective. We ran out of episodes to watch a few days ago, so I'm hoping that they'll stop. In the mean time, I'm on the prowl for new cinematic distractions.

Cold Bodies and Warm Days

There is a scene in the aptly titled yet still hilarious movie, Dumb & Dumber where Harry, played by Jeff Daniels, is sulking and angry after a fight with his best friend Lloyd Christmas (Jim Carrey). Unbeknown to Harry, Lloyd had went into a town and traded the "Shaggin Wagon" to a kid for a "hog"--a scooter attached to a weed eater engine. This unexpected turn of events led Harry to exclaim, "Just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber, you go and do something like this... and totally redeem yourself!" That's kinda how my day turned out--the unexpected redemption of Paris.

For the past few weeks it hasn't really been that cold in comparative terms. After a certain amount of time you reach a point where you just don't notice it anymore. Day after day of the same weather has the capacity to lull one into a sort of catatonic state of regularity. Seeing the day's forecast was a shot of espresso. It broke 60! A true wake up to the reality of my situation: I am in Paris.

Morgane and I got active early. We were on our way to the Delacroix Museum by 10:30. The museum has three separate areas--the house filled with works and personal belongings, the walled garden, and a studio that also houses works. I've always liked Delacroix so I was glad to have had the opportunity to visit but, unless you are a rabid fan I'd be hesitant to recommend it. However, the museum is situated on one of the most amazingly quiet and serene streets I've experienced here despite being only two blocks from the busy Boulevard St. Germain



After the museum we made our way down rue de Four toward Le Bon Marche. Conveniently located across the street was a church that I wanted to see. This afforded us the opportunity to see the renowned department store and a little time to browse.



Walking out of the store on to rue du Bac I started looking for the church. My expectation was a stand alone church and not one tucked within a slim corridor between apartment buildings. The church, Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-la-Medaille-Miraculeuse, is the resting place of Saint Catherine Labouré who, at the request of the Virgin Mary, created the Miraculous Medal. The chapel (and Catherine's glass encased body) is situated at one of the spots the Virgin Mary appeared to her. Catherine was exhumed in 1933 and canonized in 1947.

I should have been tipped off by the clusters of people around the building and inside the courtyard but I was surprised at the number of people inside the chapel. Initially I assumed we had come during a mass before realizing the chapel was full of pilgrims praying to Saint Catherine.

To my knowledge, I've never seen an embalmed person before much less a saint. It was a very strange experience. Walking up to the altar to see the encased body I felt almost as if I was intruding upon something. I couldn't muster the strength to do anything more than glance at the face. Eerie experience.

Shaking off our dismay we headed next door to the Grand Epicerie of Paris to get lunch. The store is owned by the same company as Le Bon Marche and reminded me a lot of Whole Foods. This impression was aided by the groups of Americans I kept noticing (apparently the "American area" of Paris is nearby). After getting some sandwiches and fruit, we walked down rue de Babylone towards Les Invalides to enjoy the weather and have lunch in the large park in front of the former hospital.



Though Invalides still houses a veterans hospital, it has also become a war museum with materials from 1875-1945. In addition to this, the remains of French war heroes are interred in the domed chapel. Most famous among those interred is Napoleon. This past summer I attempted to visit the tomb with Morgane but happened to come on an afternoon when the state was honoring a recently deceased hero of the Resistance. We were able to stroll the grounds and witness part of the ceremony but were unable to see the church, tombs, or the war museum (which turned out to be very interesting).



Discounting Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen the worship of a person reach such (divine) proportions. Though I don't know the exact measurements, the tomb is huge. Sitting in the middle of the lower floor of the chapel, the tomb lies directly below the dome. In a circle surrounding it are bas-reliefs depictions of Napoleon and his achievements. The thing that pushes this on from homage and towards worship are the depictions themselves. Each one shows Napoleon in the garb of a Roman Caesar with the unconcerned gaze of the divine. Adding to this is the fact that the other figures in the reliefs are generally shown in some state of genuflection or adoration.



As I write, the windows are open and the weather is perfect. Unfortunately the coming week is supposed to bring colder weather and the gift will prove to be brief. Brevity doesn't revoke its status as a gift, if anything it heightens it. This could be seen on any avenue in town as people spilled out of the cafes and onto sidewalks. Today the ephemeral happened to fall into my lap.

Searching For Good Times

Hopefully I'm not the only person that feels like they've wasted time in their life on occasion (the title is a line from "Time Is On My Side"). As I write it has been almost two and a half months since I left America. That is to say a week or two past the mid-way mark in my adventures which means that I am unfortunately on the other side of the hill slowly sliding back into reality/America.

Perhaps procrastination is indicative of our own perception of mortality. There's always tomorrow. How, amidst the hubbub of one's day, is one supposed to comprehend the magnitude of life and the frailty with which one clings to it? I don't feel I've wasted time, or "missed" anything here but sitting on the back half of my time abroad an unusual sense of urgency consumes me. My mind has been racing trying to figure out what to see and how to utilize the rest of my time in the best way possible but it's all futile. There's always something more. There will always be an unturned stone.

For lack of a better expression it's like having that "oh shit" moment in college when the reality of the test you put off to go knock around with your friends comes crashing down around you. The inconspicuous moments that never seemed important. They're the ones you remember. They're the ones that matter. Perhaps my GPA and my father would disagree with me but it's the truth. Clichés are cliché for a reason.

The never ending dream of man is to catch hold of the ephemeral moments of bliss as they happen. So often it is only in reflection that one comes to the realization of what each moment meant. With my return to America looming on the horizon the realization has been thrust upon me. I know it doesn't matter much what I see or don't see before I leave. The purpose of the trip was not what but who. The memories I retain will be those that seemed to pass before me unnoticed--My idle days with a beautiful girl.

Asinine Affectations of an Arkansan

Recently a website titled "Stuff White People Like" was brought to my attention. Written from a pedagogical perspective it is ostensibly set up to teach non-whites about whites but the true aim is just making fun of white people. It's filled with items that white people like and each topic is usually accompanied by a humorous summary. Though the humor and insight behind each topic varies widely, it is a pretty interesting list

Although I'm proud to dislike a number of things that according to the site I'm supposed to like as a white person, several of my "likes" dotted the list, most notably The Wire, Breakfast places, & Netflix. However, the particular post that got me the most was the one on traveling (and its sister post, Studying Abroad). You can see each here: Travel, Study abroad

I hope that I currently don't act like the people described and hopefully I won't begin to affect any sort of behavioral pretensions as a result of my time here. The one area where I can see myself possibly failing is the acquisition of a taste for a refined foreign product of some sort. Generally speaking, I had assumed I was safe from this since I've never been much of a "brand man." Despite being briefly employed at a higher end distributor I've never had much pretension with beer. I grew up drinking cheap, mass produced beer and maintained the habit throughout my college and post-college years. So, although I can appreciate and enjoy foreign beers or micro brews, I never fell in love with them (in a sense I've never really out grown my penchant for beers like the High Life). Contrasting that is my relative pretensions with wine and liquor as a result of my time as a liquor store employee. Unlike my friend Skip, I won't stomach rot gut liquors like Kentucky Deluxe. Likewise I affect airs when it comes to certain wines like Yellow Tail whose success is largely based around a successful marketing approach towards women (this is especially noticeable in the college co-ed crowd).

Despite all intentions against doing so, I think I've unfortunately succumbed to the "Czechznlishiyush Pilsner" phenomenon courtesy of Morgane's mom, Monique. Oddly enough, the beverage of choice at her house is cider. I'd never had anything but the sugar soaked beer bottle style ciders of America and was pleasantly surprised with my first taste of French cider. Over the past few months I've become quite fond of the various ciders of Normandy I've been able to sample during meals with Monique. The oddity of this new penchant for cider is of course my distaste for most things involving apples except the apple itself. I've never liked applesauce and apple pie will most always be choice number two given the option. So, becoming attached to cider has been an unexpected turn of events. Though I won't be ordering cases of cider for myself when I get back home it has served as another reminder that your parents were right when they remonstrated you for not trying something--you don't know if you like it until you try it. In a lot of ways that parental dictum sums up the experience of travel (and life) itself.

Omaha and the World

I had mentioned yesterday that seeing the American Cemetery and the beach at Omaha reminded me of one of the many reasons why I'm proud of who I am as an American (and Arkansan). Those feelings have been easy to loose sight of in the past few years—it is truly amazing how wild the swing between post 9/11 national unity and post Iraq division was. In certain circles the state of the nation became a joke as threats of emigration were bandied around. Regardless of policies or parties, forgetting what's right, forgetting what's important is easy to do in times of despair and negativity. (thankfully we as a nation have a chance once again to move forward, out of the shadow of the previous years/presidency).

So it was with a renewed sense of solemn pride that I experienced the testament to human sacrifice of the “greatest generation” on the beaches of Normandy. It is much easier and pleasant to dismiss certain aspects and policies of the pre and post war world in America and simply canonize the men and women of the era as the “greatest generation.” Painting a picture of sacrifice, hard work, and protection of liberty has created a direct link with the values and ideals of our founding fathers. A lesson is taught and a paradigm of what America is has been created out of our role in WWII. Unfortunately this isn't the reality of the United States and in the post WWII world selfless valor and instances of protecting people against tyranny has become harder to come by and more politically precarious.

We alone can't protect the world from itself but we as a nation must ask ourselves what role we shall play. Shall we revert back to Monrovian isolationism or shall we continue to assert ourselves on the world stage? In the post WWII world a decision was made to shake off the chains of isolationism and step forward into the world and be counted as a super power. This shift occurred with the positive intentions of shaping the world and checking the growth of communism. In doing so we have lost sight of what was right. We lost sight of the lessons of WWII. And though there have been promises of “never again,” people continue to be persecuted and killed in the world while decisive action is avoided and reality is pushed aside. Unless America plans to step out of the shoes it first put on in WWII, there is an imperative to act on behalf of those who can't act for themselves.

This imperative comes not out of interests of state, of money, or of politics but out of whats is right versus what is wrong. The only question that matters is, “Is this right?” If it's not right then definitive action is required. Is it right that we still have a Cuban embargo in a post cold war world? Is it right that there are 1.4 million displaced people in Uganda? It is impossible to protect everyone but if nothing else is learned from WWII we must use the power we have to help when we can. We must use our power to make inroads against the inequities of the world otherwise, what good has come from the lives laid down to free Europe from tyranny?

The Norman Weekend

Now that I've dovetailed the posts that comprised my "hope trilogy," I can move on to a more traditional post detailing the events of my weekend sojourn to Normandy instead of the vapid thoughts of my rambling mind.

After a long week of work Morgane and I took off early Saturday morning to visit Mont Saint-Michel. The trip tok about 3 1/2 hours from Paris. Speeding along the highway we crested a hill and I caught my first glimpse of the fabled island abbey.



Looming high atop the rocky island, Mont St. Michel casts a striking spell on the eye. Because of the image and the magical association I have created with it in my head, it was one of two things I HAD to see in France before leaving.

For those that don't know, the tidal patterns around Mt. St. Michel draw out each day making the island accessible by foot but then surrounding it with the ocean again at night. As we approached the parking lot at the base of the isle we were warned by signs that read, "To-day this area will be under the sea by 18:30. Please remove your vehicle prior or it will be swept away." An auspicious way to start the visit.

I parked the car and we began the short walk from the lot to the island entrance. Walking into the walls of the village was like stepping into an alternate universe--one where kitschy tourist shops reign supreme over the rocky land. Erase the summer wear and add overcoats and this picture will give you a general idea of what it is like.



We had lunch at the noticeably famous La Mere Poulard (the walls are covered with pictures and autographs of everyone from Tony Parker and Margaret Thatcher to Ernest Hemingway and King Edward VII). The dish of note is a giant omelet that is cooked in copper pans over an open fire. The note didn't really go over well with Morgane and I. To my unrefined pallet it seemed to be like eating foam. I can appreciate the skill it takes to creating an omelet as light and fluffy as they do, however, much like golf, it just ain't my thing.

After our omelet experience we waded through the masses to visit the abbey at the top of the island. Unfortunately the experience on a whole was a bit of a let down. Seeing the abbey (and the views from it) was a unique and beneficial experience. When you add the congesting knot of ridiculous shops and the tourists descending on the isle, it is easy to see that the best view of the island is that which is plastered all over the postcards--the view from afar.

The second thing I felt I HAD to see before leaving was Omaha Beach. It also turned out to be the other large factor that contributed to my general feelings about Mt. St. Michel. The trip from the island to Omaha Beach took about an hour and a half. It was late in the afternoon before we made it but we got out to walk around and marvel at the enormity of where we were standing.

We found a B&B in Colleville-sur-Mer to spend the night and drove into Bayeux for dinner (Ironically our dinner, though more than fifty percent cheaper and virtually unknown in comparison to the famous La Mere Poulard, was leaps and bounds more satisfying than our lunch). Unfortunately we were unable to visit the American Cemetery before it closed on Saturday afternoon and had to wait until after our breakfast Sunday morning. We were treated with a typical Norman morning--gray and damp, which cast an added pall on the morning visit. Without getting to verbose, I can say that the cemetery is on of the most inspired monuments to fallen men I've ever witnessed. Pictures will do no more justice to the feelings that the site is capable of evincing than my words, so I will say simply that it was a touching reminder of the positive pride I have as an American--a pride that at times has been easy to sully, deride, or forget ere these past few years.



(This simple picture offers a glimpse at the cemetery without revealing the monuments that help give the power to the site. I didn't want to post pictures of the monuments because the pictures I found failed to evoke the power they hold in person)

Leaving the cemetery we drove back through the city of Caen so I could get in touch with my roots. Take it as you will (Morgane chooses a tone of skeptical amusement) but I'm related to the King of England, the Bastard Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror who is buried in the Norman city of Caen. He's my great X27 grandfather. Sadly the lineage is traced through the ultimate Disney villain, the evil King John of Robin Hood fame.

After the brief pilgrims jaunt through Caen, we drove along the Ouistreham canal before crossing it towards the east and making our way along the seashore to Trouville-sur-mer.



Trouville-sur-mer is a charming place. There is a honest reality to the town that is often lacking in many vacation spots. This essence of naturalness gives it an overall appeal no matter the weather or the season. Since it is a mere two hour train ride from Paris it is an easy and accessible retreat for BO-BO (Bohemian Bourgeois) Parisians. My own little BO-BO (Mlle Sezalory) was able to lead us to one of the best bistrot in France (according to the newspaper Le Parisien and now me). We had a traditional Sunday lunch of beef, potatoes, and amazing bread at Les Quatres Chats (four cats) which in (my) French sounds like "lay cat shats." We followed lunch up with a brief walk along the beach before the cold and rain forced us back into the car and the two hour trip back to Paris and another week of work turning Les Composantes into a fashion empire.

The Dovetail

My second trip to the UGC Cinema at La Defense proved much more successful than the first.

Be Kind Rewind (Soyez Sympa Rebombinez)was released here on Wednesday so Morgane and I made the short train ride over to the mall at La Defense to catch the 8PM showing. We missed our train because it came two minutes early and as a result got to the theater a bit later than desired. As we waited in line watching the available seats systematically drop from 17 to 4 we found out that the director (Michel Gondry) was at the theater for some sort of premier event. Of all the gin joints in all the world Gondry had to pick that one. And as luck would have it we were next in line to get tickets when the show finally sold out. Waiting in line as the theater slowly sold out felt like being in a reinterpretation of The Chinese Restaurant episode on Seinfeld. Everybody else kept getting in and we couldn't. Dejected, we walked back through the mall to the station.

As devastating as missing the Wednesday night showing was, seeing it Thursday night made any bitter memory disappear. Great seats, a great film, and a nice bar of dark chocolate is enough to make any memory history. Once again I'm breaking my own rules but this movie was excellent. By far the most accessible (at least for me)and least depressing Gondry film to date.

Seeing the movie seems to have been a culmination of events for me. Firstly, I saw only one preview in the states before I left. As a result I got a tantalizing taste of the film but was not over exposed to it. I don't know what the marketing was like in the States but I was absolutely insulated here--no commercials, reviews, or ads to sway conceptions. I was at the perfect pre-viewing state, somewhere between knowledge of the film and blissfully unaware.

Secondly it was a funny movie. Exactly what I needed. It was humorous not in the peppy overwritten way Juno was but in an honest and realistic way (this of course seems somewhat hard to accomplish given the premise). What gave the movie (and the humor) its driving power was the communal spirit. It, if anything, was a love song not only to the positive power of film but to the power individuals have to leave a positive impact on the world around us. As a film it brings a message of hope, of innocence, and of progression--all of which sound a lot like an Obama speech. I said it was a culmination.

Funny how things in life have a way of dovetailing together.

The Cares of a Fashion Clerk

I've been working for Les Composantes in a clerical capacity for a while now and have been exposed to a set of people that really care about fashion. As Morgane delicately pointed out, I have an okay sense of style but an under-developed sense of fashion--or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, when you toss in the foreign language factor it might be easy to think I'm a bit out of my depth. To a certain extent that is true. During my day recording orders and checking emails there are often questions and problems I can't handle or don't know how to answer. However, since I'm a born again positivist, there are also many benefits to being an employee of Les Composantes. I get to work on my French in an applicable setting, help ensure/be a part of my girlfriend's success, and I get an insight into a completely foreign atmosphere (excuse the pun/double meaning).

I spent my teenage years living with two females so I've always felt I had a certain insight into women or at least a solid frame of reference when engaging them. All bets are off for the fashion crowd. They behave like my brother when it comes to Razorback football. There are countless message boards full of rumors, insults, secrets, sales, and scoops. Bloggers by the platoon. It's serious business.

My first instincts were laughter and incredulous disbelief. This is of course the same reaction these girls would have if they knew how much I cared about college football or MLB. Though from time to time I still derive smiles and stifled laughter from the fashionistas, I try to be objective about the situation. Of course the irony is that there is usually no objectivity when it comes to caring about something. The great Roger Angell summed up the "why" as best as anyone could when trying to answer how someone could affiliate themselves with something like a professional sports team:

"What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring -- caring deeply and passionately, really caring -- which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives."

His quote, though directed towards sports, is an apt summation of what people feel in Obama. For so long "caring" didn't matter in politics...apathy bubbled over the surface and infected those who should care most. Obama has struck a cord in those countless people. Caring is an affront to the jaded eyes of experience and discerning education, an affront to the mindset of a generation (one that is hopefully on its way out).

Whether it's spring fashion, the NL Central, or a positive political change, there is always something into which we put our hopes. Some passions, like politics, are more readily explainable to those people wondering why one cares. These explanations aren't necessary. Just be glad to have retained the ability to blindly care past childhood. Embrace the joys and heartbreaks.

"And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved."