Cold Bodies and Warm Days

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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



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



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



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

Searching For Good Times

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

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

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

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

Asinine Affectations of an Arkansan

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

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

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

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

Omaha and the World

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

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

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

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

The Norman Weekend

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

The Dovetail

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cares of a Fashion Clerk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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