An Arkansan at Home

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

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

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

The Flights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts Before Returning

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

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

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

May He Find Peace

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

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

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

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


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

Translating Titles

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

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

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

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

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

A British Bent

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

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

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

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

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

Lafayette & the Language of Oppression

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roller Cops Against Tibet

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

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



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

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



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

Top 5 Churches

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

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



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

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres



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

Basilique Saint-Denis



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



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

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

St Alexander Nevsky Cathedral



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

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



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

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



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

Tides of Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I Saw in Barcelona

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

Sagrada Familia



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

Park Guell





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



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

La Rambla



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

Barceloneta





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

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



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

The Birds and The B's

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

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

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

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

Back from Barcelona

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

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

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

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

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

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