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.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
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?
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?
Monday, March 24, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 21, 2008
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?
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?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
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?
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?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 7, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
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."
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."
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Cynicism in America
What does it say about our civilization when we have put such a high price on honesty? I tried to come up with an interesting and tangible explanation to why I've been relatively silent/inactive this past week but couldn't. The reality is that my inactivity in life carried over to inactivity of pen/mind. It's honest and that has to count for something. It has to count for something. (Isn't honesty McCain's selling point and main source of popularity?)
When did we stop expecting honesty and start expecting lies or half truths? I always hear Watergate thrown out there as the occurrence that changed America, a loss of innocence. Watergate supposedly woke America up to reality. Taking liberties with the English language: it signaled the "cynicification" of America.
Today is supposed to be the day that decides the Democratic nomination. Votes are being cast in Ohio and Texas that will decide the fate of the Clinton campaign. Throughout these past months I've waffled back and forth on what candidate I preferred but today I can tell you that I hope the voters of both states add to Obama's growing mandate.
Along the way it dawned on me that, as a man and a candidate, what Obama offers with his promises of hope and change is as much a vision of the past as it is a paean to the future. His message, more than anything, seems to offer a way to shed the cynical shells we wear as Americans. I concocted many stratagems to avoid what I felt deep inside me--the urge to support Obama. Among other things I told myself that his policies weren't clear enough, that the 1-2 diplomatic punch of the Clinton's would right the wrongs of the world. I was fighting the urge. I was too proud to support a..."feel good" candidate.
His campaign seemed to deny reality. I couldn't stomach that.
Cynicism is a hard thing to shake but at some point I realized that denying reality was exactly what was needed. A reality where honesty comes as a surprise, a reality of hardened cynicism, is a reality that shouldn't be stomached.
An Avett Brothers lyric seems to apply: "So if ever someone says to you, life isn't fair, get used to it. Then you should say 'Well it might be if folks like you would let it be."
When did we stop expecting honesty and start expecting lies or half truths? I always hear Watergate thrown out there as the occurrence that changed America, a loss of innocence. Watergate supposedly woke America up to reality. Taking liberties with the English language: it signaled the "cynicification" of America.
Today is supposed to be the day that decides the Democratic nomination. Votes are being cast in Ohio and Texas that will decide the fate of the Clinton campaign. Throughout these past months I've waffled back and forth on what candidate I preferred but today I can tell you that I hope the voters of both states add to Obama's growing mandate.
Along the way it dawned on me that, as a man and a candidate, what Obama offers with his promises of hope and change is as much a vision of the past as it is a paean to the future. His message, more than anything, seems to offer a way to shed the cynical shells we wear as Americans. I concocted many stratagems to avoid what I felt deep inside me--the urge to support Obama. Among other things I told myself that his policies weren't clear enough, that the 1-2 diplomatic punch of the Clinton's would right the wrongs of the world. I was fighting the urge. I was too proud to support a..."feel good" candidate.
His campaign seemed to deny reality. I couldn't stomach that.
Cynicism is a hard thing to shake but at some point I realized that denying reality was exactly what was needed. A reality where honesty comes as a surprise, a reality of hardened cynicism, is a reality that shouldn't be stomached.
An Avett Brothers lyric seems to apply: "So if ever someone says to you, life isn't fair, get used to it. Then you should say 'Well it might be if folks like you would let it be."
Monday, March 3, 2008
Words and Wonders
I imagine there are countless misspellings and mistranslations of French words all across the English speaking world so it is not really fair to poke fun when I find them here in France. Fairness aside, they are usually too damn funny not to say something about them. Most recently there was a mistake I saw while waiting in line to see St. Chapelle.
As you can hopefully see from the picture above, only one monosyllabic word suffices in description--Wow. It's a two story chapel completely surrounded by the Palais du Justice (formerly a royal residence from the 10th-14th century) on Ile de la Cite. It was built by Louis IX to house the relics of the Passion of Christ like the Crown of Thorns. The purchase of the relics from the Emperor of Constantinople actually cost more than the construction of the church itself. Stained glass windows surrounding the second floor walls of St. Chappelle tell the story of the Bible from Genesis through Christ's resurrection. Also, there is a depiction of the Apocalyptic prophecies of St. John on the western rose window. Lying opposite, the eastern rose window (behind the altar) depicts the Passion.
Being completely enclosed by the Palais, it's somewhat off the beaten path for Parisians and tourists alike. Consequently it, unlike most other church buildings, has an admission price and fairly tight security. It was while waiting in line to go through security that I noticed signs in French, English, and Spanish detailing instructions for passing through the security check. I began reading the sign in English, did a double take and immediately burst out in laughter drawing curious stairs from everyone around me. Someone in the French translation department had created a new English word, "travelator." As in "put your bags and any metal items onto the travelator." Unless "travelator" is the British word for "conveyor belt," some bureaucrat pulled a word out of a hat.
As you can hopefully see from the picture above, only one monosyllabic word suffices in description--Wow. It's a two story chapel completely surrounded by the Palais du Justice (formerly a royal residence from the 10th-14th century) on Ile de la Cite. It was built by Louis IX to house the relics of the Passion of Christ like the Crown of Thorns. The purchase of the relics from the Emperor of Constantinople actually cost more than the construction of the church itself. Stained glass windows surrounding the second floor walls of St. Chappelle tell the story of the Bible from Genesis through Christ's resurrection. Also, there is a depiction of the Apocalyptic prophecies of St. John on the western rose window. Lying opposite, the eastern rose window (behind the altar) depicts the Passion.
Being completely enclosed by the Palais, it's somewhat off the beaten path for Parisians and tourists alike. Consequently it, unlike most other church buildings, has an admission price and fairly tight security. It was while waiting in line to go through security that I noticed signs in French, English, and Spanish detailing instructions for passing through the security check. I began reading the sign in English, did a double take and immediately burst out in laughter drawing curious stairs from everyone around me. Someone in the French translation department had created a new English word, "travelator." As in "put your bags and any metal items onto the travelator." Unless "travelator" is the British word for "conveyor belt," some bureaucrat pulled a word out of a hat.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Springtime of the Masses
The first of March and the signs of spring continue to appear--fewer scarves, girls in skirts without stockings, actual sunshine. If nothing else, the changes could be seen in the mass clusters of people around the city, sprawled along the Seine or perched on the steps of L'Opera Garnier, lapping up the sun like parched puppies. Although the temperatures refused to entirely cooperate, the sun was shining across the capital today. It had been missed.
I keep returning to the weather. People ask if I get homesick and I don't per se, though the weather seems to promulgate a deep craving for light and openness. It's astounding how much a little sunshine can alter moods, feelings, the day itself. The weather here seems to have a cumulative effect--brow beating the inhabitants into a morose state during the winter. Perhaps it's banal but I feel the effects each day. I can see the drawn, stern faces of pedestrians--each feeding off the other and the whole taking their cue from the skies.
At times it is particularly devastating for me as I am disused to the winter as it occurs here. This unfamiliarity is then exacerbated by the effect of being a stranger, a fish out of water. With sunshine comes vibrancy, smiles, and activity. As a foreign resident winter seems to test your mettle and perhaps gauges the true value you hold on a place whereas the warmth of summer is an idyll felt more with the senses than the mind. My time in Paris this summer existed on a different plane. It was an experience suspended from reality. As a result it continues to exist more tangibly in my mind than in the place I see around me each day. These past two months have been rooted in reality, offering a myriad of emotions and experiences. As a result this reality of place has granted me a better understanding of the city that surrounds me and of myself. So while there might be times where something as cliché as a gray sky creates a wistful feeling inside me, there are more often feelings of true happiness found in experiences--of place, of love, of life--all rooted in reality.
I keep returning to the weather. People ask if I get homesick and I don't per se, though the weather seems to promulgate a deep craving for light and openness. It's astounding how much a little sunshine can alter moods, feelings, the day itself. The weather here seems to have a cumulative effect--brow beating the inhabitants into a morose state during the winter. Perhaps it's banal but I feel the effects each day. I can see the drawn, stern faces of pedestrians--each feeding off the other and the whole taking their cue from the skies.
At times it is particularly devastating for me as I am disused to the winter as it occurs here. This unfamiliarity is then exacerbated by the effect of being a stranger, a fish out of water. With sunshine comes vibrancy, smiles, and activity. As a foreign resident winter seems to test your mettle and perhaps gauges the true value you hold on a place whereas the warmth of summer is an idyll felt more with the senses than the mind. My time in Paris this summer existed on a different plane. It was an experience suspended from reality. As a result it continues to exist more tangibly in my mind than in the place I see around me each day. These past two months have been rooted in reality, offering a myriad of emotions and experiences. As a result this reality of place has granted me a better understanding of the city that surrounds me and of myself. So while there might be times where something as cliché as a gray sky creates a wistful feeling inside me, there are more often feelings of true happiness found in experiences--of place, of love, of life--all rooted in reality.
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