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?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
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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