Where in the World is Kadyn?

C'est l'heure

2011-08-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

(It's time) Today as I was rushing (running, sweating, and looking very un-chic) to catch the metro to meet friends for a farewell picnic the realization hit, “This is the last time I will be running late in Paris.” Usually I deplore my ineptitude to be punctual but this time it was saddening. The last time? Oh, tragedy! There will be an abundance of “opportunities” to be late in the future but not so many to live in Paris.

It will be lovely to be back in pristine Montana but first here are a few qualities I have saveored and will miss about the City of Light.

1. People have all the time in the world for each other whether they be a friend, colleague or the baker. When you ask how people are they don't bark, “Busy!” They stop, look you in the eye and are truly present.
2. The great people I have met.
3. The art of conversation.
4. Beauty and aesthetics matter in daily life. Flowers on windowsills, a good baguette, an evening stroll.
5. The diversity of cultures, opinions, etc...
6. Speaking French.
7. Art (galleries, architecture, posters, graffiti, street art..)
8. Concerts, museums, ballets, even operas.
9. Old stuff: history, buildings, gates, anything.
10. Public Transportation (bus rides invariably become community conversation hubs)
11. Riding my bike through the streets with library books in the front basket.
12. Walking everywhere.
13. Focus on quality: food (much fewer preservatives), products, small artisan shops.
14. Running along the Seine while booksellers applaud, “Bravo!”, watching the water flow under the Pont du Carrousel or 6am on the Pont Alexandre III. Heck, anything along the Seine River.
15. Living in a place where big current events occur.
16. The beauty of this city.
17. All of the great little neighborhoods and parks.
18. Working on life goals: living in Paris, French fluency.
19. Always something new to explore.
20. Knowing you will have a surprise or challenge every day.

Here are some things that won't be missed!
1. General disgruntlement of all Parisians and love of complaining.
2. Stinky polluted city.
3. Lots of sex. Everywhere.
4. Planning your evening according to when the metro closes.
5. Pigeons. Oh, horrid carriers of pestilence.
6. Dog poop. Wearing open toed shoes is a risk.
7. The stress of living in a city.
8. Always having to be aware.
9. Lunch can last 4 hours.
10. Knowing you will have a surprise or challenge every day.

Jeter

2011-08-18T13:40:00.000-07:00

mai 2011
(To throw) “You're going to Paris? You have to throw marshmallows off of the Eiffel Tower!” Hannah exclaimed. Well, I didn't actually throw them off the tower since I was afraid I might kill someone. Marshmallow Manslaughter doesn't sound like fun times. But here are three marshmallows from America and here they are just for you Hannah, Sierra, and Jandi!

Merci, Hemingway

2011-08-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

Mai/May 2011
Tonight is a Hemingway night. It's Paris and it is raining outside. Earlier, at the fruitier (fruit shop), after the long bus ride through the puddle of a city, the prim nosed lady at the counter quipped that my bag of apples came to 1,80€. “I don't know if I have that much.” but lo and behold, there it was in my porte-monnaie (wallet). I was as surprised as anyone, for this is Hemingway's Paris where ends barely meet. How he could afford to eat oysters and drink so much liqueur, who knows. I suppose post-war Paris was just different.

That little sack of hard bright apples fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. The lady with the nose seemed relieved that I didn't need another sack to carry it. As I stepped out from under the awning and around the queues of people waiting for their baguette I remembered when I used to work at that gallery down in Bigfork. The people at the grocer used to call me the “girl who never wants a sack.” Watching a girl juggle an armful of groceries must be good enough entertainment in a small town.

But this is a big town and there is always something to see. An old man bundled in a trench coat and plaid was struggling to mount his bike as he crossed the street, one foot on the ground, the other hobbled on the pedal. He was having a bear of a time. His eyes bulged with the effort and his hands were knuckled gray over the handle bars. Was he was smiling or grimacing? I wanted to laugh for his sake but wasn't sure if he thought it was a joke.

But back to the apples and going home. Below my place is a bar where only men hang out. It is the Bar de l'Avenue. They are always there, watching football (soccer) on the TV that hangs in the corner. The barman stands behind the zinc*, wiping tall beer glasses with a great square torchon (dishcloth). He spins the glasses with just a few fingers inside because his hands are too big. The men hunch deeper into their leather jackets when the score gets bad, their cigarette smoke drifting out onto the sidewalk tables. On the other side the cordonnier (leather worker) leans on the door frame of his shop, arms crossed. He avoids my gaze ever since I didn't want to pay him what he asked of me to fix my broken purse.

To get to my place you walk through a dark corridor where the wall's paint is peeling and the smell of mold hangs somberly. I punch in the code on the doorpad in the inner courtyard then push the carved wooden door into the narrow passageway of the foyer. It always smells musty and fishy. Up four flights of creaky wooden stairs where my foot, short as it is, hangs over the edge of the steps. After the spiral I can hear the lady in her apartment facing mine listening to her maghreb (North African) music, which she doesn't turn off until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I stumble over at 4am, telling her its just “trop fort” for crying out loud. She politely turns it down. The next night it is the same story all over again.

My studio is small and dingy. Yes, dingy would be a good word for it. Just the place a writer would write a novel. A place where a misstep puts a hole in the floor, everything sits crookedly, and crawlers need to be removed from the bathroom or bed every day.

It is only seven o'clock and I should go out and enjoy this city as gray drifts into night. The Louvre is open late but I feel like staying in. It is the moment to justify turning on the lamp by the window to augment the bare bulb in the wall. Maybe I'll open the window a crack to listen to the rain.

The patter of raindrops falling on the neighbor's terrace gives a little company. As the night grows so do the sounds. The toll of church bells reverberate along the stone buildings of the boulevard and the “bom-pah bom-pah” of sirens bounces down the street. The sound of French sirens is so endearing, the opposite of their task. After the ambulance passes, the whizz of car tires cuts efficiently through pools in the street.

I've fished out one of the apples and savor the crunch of it. It is crisp and tart, cleaving away decisively.

It's a good night, you know. Paris is not always so kind. Many people come visit but much fewer come to live. There is a reason for that.

Hemingway wrote, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

In saying this, he answered my hopes and fears. It is good to be here. While it is sad to go there is no need to fear. Paris is such a place that even if you leave, its personality will grow in your soul like an apple seed, rooted and determined to never leave your memory of experience.

Living in Paris is not always easy yet it is rich. It is a gift and I'd like to think I have learned a thing or two along the way. Now it's black outside and there is nothing to see except my own reflection in the glass. It's time to close the window. Goodnight.

*The zinc refers to the traditional practice of using zinc for bar counter tops.

If you would like to explore my neighborhood:
1. Click this link: Google Maps.
2. Enter in: 88 Avenue de Saint-Mandé 75012 Paris, France
3. Select Street View.

Journal Intime: le 23 janvier 2011

2011-08-18T12:34:00.000-07:00

(Journal Entry January 23, 2011) I recently came across this journal entry from earlier this year. It is a fun story and perhaps you will enjoy it. It is unedited so forgive the excessive descriptive words and run on sentences. When I write for myself I put all of the words I like in!

“Tonight in the metro there was a man playing a guitar at Champs-Élysées Clemenceau (metro stop). At first I thought he was a homeless man because there was a rolling grocery basket before him and he was crouched on the floor. But the music made me notice him. Only a few strums made me know I wanted to put some euros in his little hammered metal pot he had wired to the basket. It was beautiful. Gorgeous. It was played so lovingly. So tenderly. I couldn't quite place the music. Spanish? South American? It was so lovely I sat and stayed while my train went through, so as to listen for five more minutes. It was one of those moments where I looked all around me at the tiled metro walls, the gray steel beams overhead, and then the reflection of my hand and cheekbones in the glass of the automatic barrier of the metro. I was seated on the the new trendy chairs they have been installing – lacquered white with the smile shaped slit in the back. 'Kadyn, this is your life. You are used to all of this.' Amazing.

I kept returning to this man and his guitar. Too bad he doesn’t have a cd. It was the kind of guitar music I like the most – Spanish inspired, with some lilting, soft, tender refrains, other dark, soothing reverberations, lots of finger picking, and then bright and intricate melodies interweaving together. There's something about a man and a guitar. It's so classic. Picasso even painted it. I am not talking about the guys who start playing the guitar to get chicks. You know, the ones who play the same stupid chords over again with the same stupid strumming pattern over again, that sing with their eyes closed as if they've got so much soul but can't quite get their voice in sync or in tune with what they're squeezing out of their guitars. Oh I know, I went to a liberal arts school, after all. I'm well acquainted with this sort.

No, I am talking about the men who cradle their guitars and sing with it like they would an old friend, meeting through thick and thin.
Like this man in the metro. With every refrain and stanza he played you couldn't help but hear how much he loved to play. It was so intimate, so loving. You felt like you'd walked around a hedge in a garden and accidentally interrupted a private conversation between two old friends. You feel sheepish but relish, even if for just that small moment, the comfort that emanates from two that share a history.

One minute was left before the next train would come. I hated to interrupt his musical reverie but something drove me to talk to this man. As I approached he could tell I had a question. 'Your music, where does it come from? What countries inspired it?'

'Oh, it's from everywhere. Spain-' and then my train came, blustering out all noise, but I think one of the places he said was Morocco. I told him, shouted rather, to be heard that I found his playing to be very good, then ran to get on the train.

I looked back at him, an older man with faded blond hair, a yellow guitar, with his knobby knees up high before him since he was sitting on the low concrete ledge playing his guitar. A black umbrella laid next to him, unfastened, and seemed a little useless. No rain could ever dare fall on such a melody...

Well, that was such a sweet end to my day. Lord, thank you so much for this time. I know this is blessed, sacred time - not because I am here in Paris, but because you are working in me while I am here. I feel like I'm living out something of great significance but that I can't quite put my finger on it. Either way, thank you so much. I know someday I'll look back on this time with bittersweet longing. I'll forget all of the hard stuff and just remember the romance.”

Tomber Amoureux

2011-08-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

(To fall in love.) Well, Corsica was just as beautiful as anticipated. The people were warm, chatting it up without any rush. If a winsome local gentleman had asked for my hand and to live the rest of our days on this sun-kissed alpine studded jewel in the sea, I would have been hard pressed to utter anything save a southern accented “oui”. The culinary penchant for sausage and all things milk-based would have presented the only setback. Don't worry. I still have both of my hands.

Instead, Katie and I enjoyed the fruits of being young independent women.

We swam in the ocean with the jellyfish (yikes!), sipped wine with toes in the sand, and bronzed ourselves appropriately.

We meandered the streets of centuries old cliff-side cities, risked our lives on fast paced mountain roads and desert landscapes, and nearly froze to death sleeping on mountain passes.

Katie learned that Europeans eat late, Mediterranean men are quite friendly, and that sanitary standards differ from America.

All in all, it was a very good trip. It was another reminder that this big wide world is well worth discovering.

Ile de La Beaute: La Corse

2011-05-07T15:20:00.000-07:00

Island of Beauty: Corsica
7 Mai

“Have you ever heard of Corsica?” Didier ventured, eyebrow raised .
Oh boy, you have no clue who you are dealing with. I am a Schmautz, aka recepticle of random useless knowledge. “Yes, it's where Napoleon was born.”
He chuckled, pleased. This was the first conversation I recall ever having about Corsica. It was at the dining room table with my host father on my very first trip to France. He was a jovial man who daily offered Schnapps for breakfast, “Peach? Mint?” It was unclear why he thought this was so funny but he did, and now it kind of is, in a weird way.

Either way, that conversation planted a seed. Months later in Nice I tried to convince my friends we really needed to take a ferry down to Corsica. No takers. The question was obviously posed to the wrong people. Now, seven years later, that someone has been found. My cousin! Super exciting, I must say. Katie is coming to France tomorrow (this will probably be the only real-time blog on this entire site). After a couple joyful days of getting to help her discover Paris for the first time we will fly to Corsica.

Corsica. Look it up on the internet. And drool. There is no way it could be more built up in my mind so hopefully it won't be too disappointing when we arrive and find it isn't heaven on earth after all. But you have to admit, the stats are staggering. Corsica is an island in the Mediterranean that is a part of France but still fiercely independent, covered in mountains, and trilingual. Sea. Mountains. French speaking. A deadly combination. It could only be compared to grapes plus chocolate plus crack. Not all at once, and I don't really know if crack is all that good, but people seem to like it.

Our plans revolve around hiking, swimming in the ocean, tasting some wine,camping, kayaking, driving the coast, maybe some canyoning just for good measure, who knows. Don't worry, we'll scope it out for your future trip.

Joyeuses Paques

2011-05-07T15:18:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter!
Sunrise over Paris at Sacre Coeur.

Les Soirées

2011-05-07T15:12:00.000-07:00

Evening Parties.
Spring is here and that means picnicking along the Seine river and dancing. Can you spot yours truly?

Mmmm...

2011-05-07T15:08:00.000-07:00

The other day there was an interesting discovery the extensive Porte de Clignancourt flea market. Besides the English words, do you notice anything odd in thie photo? Click on the pic to enlarge it.

La Princesse de Bel Air

2011-05-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

The Princess of Bel Air.
Ok, that title is cheezy. Oh well. I recently moved out of my apartment (the tallest building in the background) in the neighborhood of Bel Air. It was a wonderful place and it will always bring back (mostly...) fond memories.

Au Marché

2011-05-07T15:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, the joys of the Saturday morning market!

Lycée

2011-05-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

High School

Few would venture to call the French school system "nurturing". Remember how when people talk about their great grandparents and say, “They were old school” or “They were from the old country” to excuse the severity and stoicism of their ancestors? Well, France is the old country. When people came to America they shrugged off the old methods of doing pretty much everything. Over here in the old country, nothing was shrugged. Time just plodded forward on the same track. So education is still old school. This doesn't mean it is less effective, it is just different. There are some ways it could be edged along though, in my opinion. Students are told they are not good enough far more than they are told they are adequate. If I had a euro for every time a teacher told me in front of their students, “This class is not very clever.” or, “She could be a good student but she doesn't work hard enough.” I would be too rich to know what to do with myself.

In junior high or early high school they take exams that slot them into tracks which then determine what track they get to take in life. It is having to decide your future career path when your main concern is if your immediate future includes acne. The track you choose is crucial. If you are in the Science track, you are a smarty pants, you'll succeed in life. Maybe you'll become an engineer. You see, the French love engineers. It is actually kind of weird how much they like them. Engineers are fine, great, no prob. I know lots of great engineers. But it seems so strange that a country that has been steeped in so many philosophers, artists, writers, and all around stick-it-to-the-man visionaries would now become so stuck on engineering. You have to admit, it just doesn't have the same ring.

What if your academics only qualify you to be a STG? Yikes, you are going have the honor of being in a dull job your entire life. Aren't you excited? Why aren't you motivated to get an A on this test now? Literature track? Oh, sorry, you weren't quite smart enough to get on the Science track now where you? Shame.

Bill Gates never would have happened in France. It is a uniquely American model. Overall, the system points out what students don't know and all their failings. Due to this, students are afraid to stand out or improvise for fear they will be slammed down. They take few risks and seem to just want to keep their heads down to slink out of high school.

Granted, there is benefit to identifying and dredging out fault. If you are doing something incorrectly, it is invaluable to be told so you can fix it. Americans, it seems to me, often grow up in an environment where everyone is so youth focused and wants to make their children feel nurtured that we forget to tell people they are doing it wrong. We see this all the time on shows like American Idol. A girl has been rejected and she counters by saying, “They just are all wrong (the professionals). I am the best singer ever and they don't even know.” Her mother then, petting her head, says something equally ridiculous.

So, I have taken it upon myself to give these kids a different experience. Hopefully, they will see that school and learning can be actually be fun! There are three rules in the classroom. 1) Be respectful. 2) No sidetalk 3) Don't be afraid to make mistakes. I always thought that if hell froze over and I became a teacher I would be like Mrs. Brown, my old highschool AP English teacher. She was notorious for her A to ZZZ multiple choice tests and crazy hard expectations but we loved her. She was exacting, loved her material, and treated us like we actually had something to say. We worked in that class not only for the A but for her. I have not been a Mrs. Brown. I have been such an easy teach. However, I do love my students and they seem to like me – wanting to talk to me in the halls, approaching me at the train station and the like. So, ok, maybe these kids won't have a command of English by the end of the year but that wasn't really my goal anyways. Don't tell the French government that. In this class the kids are at ease to volunteer conversation (learning!), are able to ask questions without fear, and see that all Americans aren't either like Britney Spears or Obama. It hasn't been a cakewalk and there have been some rows but am confident we, the students and I, will make it out alive.

Elegance

2011-05-07T14:52:00.000-07:00

France. Home of all that is elegant and refined? (look closely)

De Tres Bonne Heure

2011-05-07T14:49:00.000-07:00

Very early mornings along the Seine is a priceless experience.

Un Jour Typique

2011-05-07T14:42:00.000-07:00

Printemps
A Typical Day

French high school is very different from American high school. To start with, there seems to be a dress code amongst these teenagers, rigid as any Catholic school. For the girls, it is ballet flats, converse, or heeled boots. Skinny jeans, black or stone washed. A fitted top with a leather jacket. Long straight hair, big earrings, lots of eye makeup, expertly applied. For the boys, it is thin soled sneakers or converse, black of course. Skinny jeans, black or stonewashed, usually with lots of seams and excessive stitching. Somehow, they manage to sag their jeans despite the snug fit. It's a mystery of science better avoided. Next, a tight black jacket with lots of pockets and a hoodie, gel in the hair, and a murse. Yep. You read that right. A murse.

Most students do not drive (that comes at 18 if you are lucky) and either get rides from parents or take public transport, whether that be a bus or train to school. There is no parking lot or school bus system for these kids! Upon arrival, they hang out on the pavement between the road and the school gate. Here, they greet their friends with the bise, the kiss on both cheeks and proceed to bum cigarettes off each other. They are highly successful because, especially on cold days, it looks like an atomic bomb has gone off. Smoking is the norm, not the exception.

The bell buzzes and a few minutes later they consider picking up their giant purses (girls) and Eastpak backpacks (boys) but don't budge until the very last minute. The second bell rings and the students pile up outside the locked classroom doors and chat. The narrow hallways here would qualify as fire hazards in the States. But they do allow you to become very familiar with the perfumes, colognes, and overripe scents of your students.

Around five to ten minutes after the final bell has rung the teacher comes strolling down the hall, totally unconcerned. Every time, the students loudly jeer their tardiness. Every time, the teacher waves dismissively, “I had things to do.” (aka shooting the breeze in the teachers' lounge) My students don't really know what to do with me since I am actually punctual. One time, they didn't come and didn't come. I looked out the door, they were waiting for me in the hall! Usually I keep the door open so they can see I am waiting inside. This particular day it had fallen shut. They are so unused to prompt teachers that they didn't even think to knock or try the door.

Once the teacher enters, the students are to file in silently (which come on, never happens) and stand at their desks until allowed to sit and put their bag on the floor, never on the desk. Next comes roll call and the latecomers. Well, we should say the really latecomers because by now they've have already wasted fifteen minutes.

The rest of class depends on the teacher, but overall the French educational methods leave me with little more than pity for these children. It is harsh, uncreative, and resembles stuffing a brain into a box of carefully regimented expectations. Somehow these same kids grow up to have perfectly effective careers, thank goodness.

Their class schedules are similar to a college schedule in America. It is sporadic but the hours extend later into the evening. However, everyone has a 20 minute break in the morning and afternoon for their cafe or cigarette in addition to at least a one hour lunch. When I explained to my students that American kids finish everyday at 3:15p, five days a week rather than the French 6 days, they were sorely jealous. Then they found out that American high schools start at 8:15am and run straight through with only one 30 minute break for lunch. They were astounded. 30 minutes? That is it? Many of them were then glad for the unhurried French method.

Students generally do not have a strong rapport with their teachers. They don't have school sports or clubs. There is no graduation with its robes and fanfare. At the end of your three years of high school you just... walk out of the doors. Au revoir. School is strictly school. If you want to have fun you had better find it elsewhere. The only extracurricular activities I have seen is students making out in the halls – a full contact sport mind you, and the smoking of various substances in the front entry. The students have massive amounts of free time and use it to lounge around the public spaces and flirt. That was what startled me the most on my first day. “Who are all these kids? And why are they all hanging out in the hallways? Shouldn't they be in class or something? And where in the blazes are the hall monitors?”

Yet, loitering aside, there are some benefits to running a school like this too. There is less concern with popularity and the social food chain. The school must save loads of money by not supporting all of these clubs and sports. The emphasis is education. There is no freshman initiation and no pandering for favors. Also, there seems to be fewer parents living vicariously through their children and people missing their golden boy days. Different? Yes. Better? Worse? No, just different. Personally though, I must admit contentment to have grown up in America.

Oh Ciel!

2011-05-07T14:41:00.001-07:00

Oh, heavens no!

Jouets!

2011-05-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Toys!

...

2011-04-27T08:44:00.001-07:00

All of the best stories just can't be told.

Quoi?

2011-04-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

What?

There are times in life where you just have to ask yourself, "Are these people for real?"

(And yes, there is a dog in his, er, man bag.)

The Pink Panther

2011-04-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Tonight there was a man playing the The Pink Panther on the saxophone in one of the arched passageways of the Louvre. The night was black and the light from the courtyard cut furrowed lines through the shadows. The sultry echoes from the saxophone stole from column to column like a furtive glance.

How perfect was this? There we were, a musician, who could have easily been Inspector Clousseau in disguise, a dark evening in Paris ripe for intrigue, and me, a young unknown in a trench coat. All we needed was a woman with a 60’s style bouffant and a string of stolen diamonds. A vintage Aston Martin wouldn’t have hurt the ambiance either.

This is one of the wonderful things about living in Paris. You never know what you will discover around the corner.

A la Bibliothèque

2011-04-27T08:36:00.000-07:00

Deuxieme Partie
Part Two

Outside, a blue sign over a wooden door wavered like a mirage between the hasty diagonals of rain streaking down the window. It read, “Children’s Library”. A library! Was it still open? It wouldn’t hurt to check, would it? Most certainly not!

The narrow beveled door swung open in invitation. Inside was a kaleidescope of color, the antithesis of everything in the drizziling outside world. Oh, sweet books! The air was full of the acrid smell of children after playing outside, grubby fingers, and exlamations of “Maman! Maman! C‘est quoi, ca?” (Mom! Mom! What is that?). It was a long sweet gulp of childhood. Oh! Those days of going to the library with Mom and checking out piles of books that leaned like minature towers of Pisa back at home in my bedroom, just bursting to be discovered.

Yet, this is was not anything like the provincial, spacious library I knew as a child. This was a small library, cobbled out of the corner of a preoccupied urban building in a bonafide city. The kids are stylish in their city clothes and after they leave here they will set their book bags over their shoulders and hop on their scooters for the journey home. There are no cars with unlimited loot space for them to take them their books to houses with unlocked doors. These are city kids. They will maneuver traffic, avoid suspicious strangers, and head home, where they will punch in door codes, climb five flights of stairs, and toss their books on a bedside table in a room that was built centuries ago while they go enjoy cassoulet for dinner.

It’s a different world. I won’t go with them for any of that journey though. Instead, I pulled out a book about puppies and sat myself down at a miniature table across from a little Jewish boy in a skullcap reading manga. Chiots (puppies). It was a rather magical book, lots of fun little facts and even cuter pictures. I forgot how much I like puppies!

Having reached the end of this erudite book, I unfolded myself from the kid table. A voice called out, “We have many more books about dogs, you know. Here, let me show you.” A librarian shuffled over in his rumbled wool sweater and began pulling down books. “Dogs of the World, Dogs of Every Kind…” Before I could put two words together there was a sizable collection of dog books on the table. Oh no, I must have looked absolutely enthralled when I was looking at that puppy book! He thinks I want to read every last book here on dogs! How could I discreetly put them back on the shelf without him being offended? I’d really already met my quota of books about puppies.

And then, this might also be a good time to tell him I don’t even have a library card. He’s wasting his time with a yahoo off the street. I don’t know why, but I have been afraid to try to get a library card here in Paris. I practically drool every time I walk by a library but actually going through the paperwork to get one sounds terrifying. It is PTSD from French bureaucracy. Going to do French paperwork is not fun, to say the least. The people make you feel like you are delivering them hate mail and then send you all over the city on a wild goose chase with conflicting advice. It makes you want to resort to violence. French people are accustomed to this bane of their lives and shrug their shoulders, “Yep, it’s stupid. And there is nothing we can do about it except complain.” But this is a happy story about puppies and childhood memories so let’s not waste any more of life in regards to French paperwork.

Yet oh, sweet Monsieur Librarian was accustomed to children and sensed my unease. “Do you have a card?” Oh, thank you so much for asking! I didn’t have the courage! Asking is the hardest part of most things in life! “No, but could you tell me how to m’abandoner?” “Oh no“, he gently corrected, “You don’t say ’abandoner’, you say ’abonner’.” Oh. Stupid. I was so relieved and nervous that I had asked him how I could ‘abandon’ myself, not how to ‘subscribe‘. I laughed aloud as I slapped myself on the forehead on the inside. Come on! You know better than that! Speak French correctly for crying out loud! But that is how it goes when you are speaking in another language. You just have to get used to looking silly.

Oh well. He then showed me how to subscribe without abandoning myself, of which I was quite thankful. He was awfully curious about my interest in puppies. I shrugged sheepishly and said, “I just have a child’s heart. That explains the puppies.” My pride smarted a little so I added, “And reading children’s books is a really good way to learn French, you know.” He diplomatically replied, “ Oh, but you’ve very good verbal skills.” Thanks. But we both know I just asked you if I could abandon myself.

Vocabulary mix-ups besides, within five minutes he handed me my new Parisian library card. That was easy! I wanted to hug him and give him the bise, the two french kisses of greeting but I refrained. If I had a tail it would be wagging.

“Now,” he announced, “I will give you the tour.” I hopped down the steps behind him to the main level and grinned. Every day here seems to turn out to be an adventure. I started out on a nice little bus ride and look, here I am, in the last place anticipated, having a perfectly nice time with a government employee in a magical land of books. He asked me what I was reading in French. “Hemingway” I proudly said, hoping to redeem his undoubted low view of my intelligence. He promptly showed me the classics section and I felt quite pleased.

I selected two books and plopped them down at the check out table like a dog might plop two bedraggled waterfowl at the feet of his master. “Look at what I brought you? Isn’t it great?!” I was so please with it all that I didn’t even listen to what the lady said. “Oh, what?” I had to lean forward, pushed from my happy little world. “They are due in 3 weeks.” Oh, yes, yes of course. And I bounded out the door. It was raining but that was no bother. I rather like rain. Just like puppies.

Ma Tante

2011-04-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

My Aunt Dawn came to visit! She had meetings in Paris and stayed an extra day to hang out with me! It was very, very fun. Here we are at the Place de Vosges, a very chic square where Victor Hugo used to live.

A la Bibliothèque

2011-04-27T08:25:00.000-07:00

At the Library
Premiere Partie / Part One

Nearer to the second half of today I decided to take the bus home from Argentine which is on the other end of Paris from my place. I was in the mood for a long car ride and incidentally, due to the bus route, was about to embark on a nice west east tour of the city. After scanning my Navigo* and greeting the driver with the customary, "Bonjour, Monsieur" I climbed up into a seat. The bus lurched and swung into the infamous roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe with its whirling circular lanes of traffic and popped out onto the Champs Elysees. This long avenue of lights and stores is as equaly famous, or infamous, depending on how you look at it, with its lineup of legends such as Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Lancel, and even Abercrombie and Fitch. French marketers have no problem using nudity to sell clothing (the irony kills me) amongst other things, so A&F is a shoe in. But anyways, off the soapbox.

From the Champs Elysees, over the river and towards Saint Germain des Pres, lies one of the oldest parts of Paris. Here, grandmothers hunchbacked by age drag their chariots (grocery baskets on wheels) by the fronts of cafes bulging with parisiens complaining about Sarko (President Sarkozy), tourists with sore feet, and college students trying to look Parisian during their year abroad. On towards the east lies the Jardin des Plantes with its menagerie and gazebo high on a hill with a view of the neighborhood. The bus route goes back over the river again towards the hustle and grime of the Gare de Lyon (train, metro, bus station). Time to switch buses. I clambered onto a new one and settled in for the sardine packed ride to my stop, finding my solace by looking up through the window at where the day started up on the Promenade Plantee. The Promenade Plantee is a long narrow park that was built on the rails of a defunct rail line in Paris. It stretches from the East of Paris to the Bastille, where the French Revolution started. I had dreamed that I would someday get to live near this a hidden gem that is elevated above the city. As I savored this answered prayer the bus jerked and I looked down. And saw a wonderous something.

*Navigo is a transportation pass.

The Promenade Plantee

Jam Out

2011-04-27T08:21:00.000-07:00

This is one of many reasons why Paris is a wonderful city. RATP, the public transport authority, has a program where they have arranged for musicians to play in the metro to give commuters’ lives some class. Hence, there is a very nice man in the Gare de Lyon who plays his accordion and smiles at me when I pass, a cello player at Palais Royal, a slough of men with instruments and bawdy voices at Concorde, and many other talented musicians across the Paris network. It does relieve stress to hear a lady rolling out La Vie En Rose in the metro as you run full tilt to catch your train.

L’Etrangère

2011-04-27T08:14:00.000-07:00

This is a card that my friend Rachel sent for my birthday. She has killer taste in cards and while I have been the lucky recipient of a lot of awesome cards in life, this one just might top them all. The rest of the card is just as good. Click on the card to enlarge it. Thanks Rachel.

The Foreign Woman
Fevrier

I have realized recently that I am that girl. The foreign girl with the accent. It is weird to say, and even weirder to live out. Because, frankly, accents are cool. That is why we used to fake British and Aussie accents growing up. The person who could do a good Scottish brogue always got the most laughs.

However, when you want to learn another language, having an accent is the dumps. It is a much better compliment to have someone ask where you are from than assume you are an English speaker because it is that obvious. In addition, up until now I had been under the impression that the French disliked the American accent.

A while ago at the Saturday market I bemoaned this very accent to the man selling me a pair of earrings. Wide eyed, he exclaimed, “Oh, never lose your accent! It is so charming! You must always keep it, you know, like the Italians do.”

Indeed, the Italian accent is rather nice. Could the American accent really be appreciated? This warranted some research. Well, what do you know! Everyone I asked said the same thing. “Charming. Cute.” They were all fans of the accent.

Alright. Fine. I will keep the stupid accent.

Très Tendance.

2011-04-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

Very Trendy.
Fevrier

Guys here have bit of a different sense of style than that of the United States. This guy, for instance is very stylish, in case you didn’t know. Often times, people take styles they have seen in American movies and pop culture and Frenchify it. For example, letter jackets are very in style here. Let’s clarify that. Letter jackets are very in style here for not only high schoolers but also for guys in their 20’s. They have no idea what it signifies but have seen it in the movies. Guys here can wear purple, hot pink, and turquoise as they please. Fur? Why not? He’s a stylin’ guy.

Super Bowl Sunday

2011-04-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

Fevrier

As all of you dug into your Doritos and Lil’ Smokies for the Super Bowl of Le Football Americain, I had the chance to partake of a different kind of Super Bowl on this side of the ocean.

Many people may not know this but Paris has the largest Chinatown in Europe. At least this is what Parisiens like to tell me, so if this is wrong, blame the French. Chinatowns are very handy places for many reasons such as their amazing fresh exotic fruit, inexpensive goods, and notably, delicious Asian food. Yum yum. In addition, Chinatown in February means Chinese New Year.

In Paris, the main Chinatown lies in the 13th Arrondissement in the Southeast and is home to many Asian groups. France is stylish so you can be sure they were all about colonialism when it was en vogue. As seems to happen to all post colonialist countries, once the colonized country has been liberated, those people immigrate in droves to the country they were once exploited by. The logic in this escapes me but who am I to talk, I’ve never colonized anybody. Anyways, Paris has a fair amount of immigrants from Southeast Asia. I remember walking in markets in Cambodia where they sold baguettes next to traditional spicy stir frys. It seemed an odd combination but that’s globalization for you. France never colonized China but people have this thing with thinking that everyone that is Asian must be Chinese, hence “Chinatown“, and they have brought hoards of cool stuff with them.

So, when we realized we could have Chinese New Year’s AND a good excuse to have some good food you better believe we took our responsibility to celebrate diversity to heart. We were so excited that we showed up hours in advance to get THE spot we wanted and then waited in the damp morning, craning our necks for the first flicker of a parade banner. Soon, the BAM! BAM! BAM! Of large Chinese metal drums came echoing down the street, ricocheting off every surface. A long parade of red and gold dragons, decorated carts in plumes of incense, and girls dancing with fans came in a flurry. This parade seems to serve as a neighborhood parade as well and welcomed many Caribbean dance troupes as well, which did not seem a likely lien to a Chinese themed parade with its whistles and flourescent feathers and booty shakes but it was fun nonetheless. After, teeth chattering from the cold we huddled into the corner table at a Pho resto near the Tolbiac metro.

One of the cool things the Vietnamese brought with them is Pho, a soup that comes in a bowl big enough to be your hat. A friend and I have been slightly obsessed lately with pho and have been pillaging the city in quest of it. You can get this dish in Kalispell but there is just something special about walking into a restaurant with all of the “regulars” speaking languages you don’t understand around you, regretting your glimpse over the counter to the grim kitchen in the back, and just kind of pointing at something on the menu to order hoping it won’t be too scary (ie. still moving) when it arrives. Sometimes the meat is still raw when it arrives but hey, this is France, people eat raw meat here all the time. No, not joking. I have too. It is a magical bowl of broth, rice noodles, fresh vegetables and meat that comes with sprigs of fresh sesame leaves, bean sprouts and the like to season according to your tastes. Regardless, it is always delicious. It is always, always, a super bowl.

Cher Paris

2011-04-18T11:07:00.000-07:00

Guides eating their lunch. And yes, they are wearing berets. 9 Janvier 2011

Dear Paris,

How are you? I am very sorry but I am just your fair-weather friend. Today actually had sun and it put me in such a good mood! I know, I know, it isn’t all about me but we have already established that I am your fair-weather friend so maybe I should up and admit that I am also a self-serving friend.

Take today, for instance. There we were, sitting on a wooden bench in the park behind Notre Dame. The sky was blue, there were a group of Girl Guides* sitting not too far off having a picnic, and even though it was quite cold out, it was nice! Why can’t you be like this more often? I mean, come on, it was fun wasn’t it, walking along the river, over the bridges, and through the backstreets together in sunny, dry weather? I was so excited because it was the first time this winter there was enough sun for me to see my shadow! In fact, it was so earth shattering that I took a picture of it! (I’ll send it to you because I am also self-absorbed. Or better yet, maybe I’ll put it on Facebook so everyone can see it.)

You get so glum and well, honestly, that sludge you’ve been producing this winter on your streets has been down right nasty. That whole snow, then rain, then freeze act you have been doing turns the streets, with their proliference of feces (dog, bird, human…) and whatnot makes for the nastiest slushee ever conceived. The thought of slipping in it makes me want to upchuck. Would it be so much to ask for you to clean yourself up a little and be more cheerful? I sure don’t think so.

Yours truly, (if you change),
k

*Girl Guides are the equivalent to our Girl Scouts.

Gris

2011-04-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

Gray. Janvier 2011

There is really no such thing as color during a Parisian winter. Instead, everything falls within shades of gray. Gray emaciated trees, gray monuments of stone, gray closed faces of Parisians as they walk in gray outfits down gray streets. You feel as though you have stepped one foot into an old black and white film and the other in a big, murky puddle. Because it rains a lot here in winter. And you notice it because you walk everywhere.

When you peek out from under your umbrella at the buildings above you come to realize that Paris is a sponge, really. In the summer months the stone Haussmanian* buildings glow like a girl in love under the rays of a benevolent sun. The same buildings in winter turn dour and severe. The stone reflects and soaks up the light, or the lack thereof.

This gray world is all very film noir. You have to be ready to face that certain melancholic, debonair irony in the everyday. The word “chipper” does not exist in parisien winter vocabulary, so if that is what you are looking for you had better wait to visit during the season when you can wear white again. Otherwise, you’ll fit in like a beauty pageant queen, nervously grinning in your hot pink and rhinestones in a room full of beatniks.

So get used to the gray. And, after a time, you’ll come to realize every shade of gray exists here in Paris. Every shade. There is the light shade of gray that nearly passes as white in the windows of linen shops as you faites du leche vitrine (“window licking” - window shopping). There is the slick black gray of the sidewalks after the rain. The mauve gray or the khaki gray that are in this year, gracing the neck of many a parisienne as they battle the damp cold. The blue gray of the pigeons that rally round small children, knowing that where there are children, there are crumbs. The green gray of the crevices of buildings where moss finds refuge to grow. And of course, there’s the sky. It is a flat gray that hovers gloomily over the city like a slab of unpolished slate propped up by the Tour Eiffel, Tour Montparnasse, and the Sacre Coeur.

Everyday there is a new nuance of gray that you hadn’t perceived before. After a while, this shade seeps into your soul and while formless, begins to mire you into the doldrums. You can see it on the faces of people in the metro and on the street. J’en ai marre! (I’m fed up!) they say, so depressed by this weather. We all long for a brighter season, where that gray world of old film becomes Technicolor. Yet there is value in this season. What it is, none of us is altogether sure. But I’ve a sneaking suspicion it is important to learn to appreciate all these many shades of gray.

* The classic architecture we think of when we think of romantic Parisian buildings.

Les Coiffures

2011-03-03T12:20:00.000-08:00

Hairstyles. 9 Janvier

Bed head is huge among women in Paris. That's to say, women carefully foster the tousled hairstyle despite how fashionable their attire may be. Hair, amongst those in my age range, tends to be long and straight-ish. French girls toss their scarves around their necks and let the hair sometimes get caught under the great wool knots, leaving their locks in disarray. It implies, “Heck, I'm beautiful. So beautiful I don't need perfect hair, or perfect anything.” Granted, there is more attention invested there than they'd like to admit, as I've seen this look prepared. French women are really into making gorgeous look effortless, although they in fact spend lots of coin in doing so.

It is an admirable trait though, and I think we American women could learn from it. A refusal of perfection. An embrace of letting the hair fall where it may. Every strand of hair doesn't need to be straightened with a flat iron, there is nothing wrong with a little frizziness. It reminds us of our humanity. One of the greatest lessons I have learned from the French is, Je m'en fiche. I don't care. This concept is a revelation to me and to all American girls who are taught to be “nice” girls. Come on, how many times have you heard the compliment, “She's so nice”? Due to the very different educational system in France, French girls are not quite as encouraged in this area as American girls are. As we grew up we wanted to be liked by everyone. That's high school! If you aren't nice, you are called a female dog. You want to be well liked. Perhaps you'll become Prom Queen. The French don't have prom queens. This must mean something.

Having gone through the gauntlet called American high school and all that I understand this desire to please. Come now, who doesn't like being liked? However, it takes a lot of smiling when you don't feel like it. The French, as far as I can make out, seem far less concerned about all of this nicety and grinning. The French do desire to be considered nice but approach it as they do the concept of beauty. It is less overt, more complicated, and it should be a byproduct of them being great in general, not their central aim. “Oh, whoops! I guess I am gorgeous after all, hardly even noticed.” - Even though they spent hours getting ready... When I ask my students who the popular kids are, they have to brainstorm as a group to come up with people. Ask any American kid and a deluge of names roll off their tongue instantly.

So, thankyou, les françaises (french girls). It is rather liberating to not care quite so much what other people think of you. If they appreciate you, fantastic. If not, that is ok too. Now if only I can figure out how to pull off that hairstyle... Oh, who cares.

Bruno Mars

2011-02-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

Has anyone else noticed that Bruno Mars has the world's most beautiful smile? It just makes you want to smile when you see it. http://www.mtvmusic.com/artist/bruno_mars/videos/545417/somewhere_in_brooklyn_live_at_vh1_

Eureka!

2011-01-22T13:36:00.000-08:00

January. Long layovers are not fun except if you happen to have it in a place where you have friends! Jen and Lauren, two old college roommates from when we lived in the infamous, feared, and venerable Eureka* house both live around Denver and were kind enough to visit me on my way back to France. We sat on the floor of the Denver airport for several hours sipping hot drinks as we caught up on each others lives. Friendship is a very good thing.

*The house we lived in during college was probably not infamous or feared and was certainly nothing so dignified as "venerable" but we sure had a lot of fun!

Christmas

2011-01-22T13:13:00.000-08:00

Thanks to some unforeseen circumstances, I had to go MT for Christmas. No, really, it was necessary! It had to do with unchangeable plane tickets and logistics but that is a long and boring story. All in all, it ended up an incredible blessing beyond my hopes to be able to be there for the holidays.

There is no need to gross you out with sappy stories about how much I love my wonderful family, etc, etc... I was quite sick most of the time but it allowed for relaxation and plenty of time with my mom at the Farm. In addition, to recount its sweetness would only make me homesick so let's just refrain from all of that, shall we? It was a lovely time and such a valuable gift to be back in the Valley for that period. The end.

Les Visiteurs

2011-01-22T12:59:00.000-08:00

Visiters! December

For various reasons people I know from MT just happen to be here in Paris! What joy! It is a nice cultural transition to prepare me to go home for Christmas.

Willie, a friend from highschool was here and so we enjoyed getting to see each other and she introduced me to a great place to get pistachio gelato!

Connor, who was a Young Life kid a few years ago is now studying abroad as a college student in France! Does life really fly by that fast? He and his brother Andrew stayed with me for a few days. It was fun to see them.

BSF

2011-01-22T12:43:00.000-08:00

Last scene: (A young woman in a cardigan stands in the middle of the stage, hands empty at sides, turns slowly around as though searching for something she may have forgotten.)

Voice from the other room: “Are you coming?”

Girl: “Yes, yes. I'm coming. Just wanted to check one last time...” (She looks around the room as she backs towards the door. Stage left. She reaches up, seems caught up in a distant thought for a moment, then taps the light switch off and closes the door behind her. The sound of footsteps fading away is heard.)

End of scene.

It is a small insignificant act but it stuck in my mind like a scene from a play. Last moments lend themselves well to such sentimental feelings. You know, the kind of thing that inspires plays at high school theatre departments where they follow the events of an assembly of characters for a year's time. There is always that inevitable scene of quietude at Christmas that pulls at our heartstrings and gets us in the holiday spirit.

Indeed, this vignette is about all of those things, Christmas break, the end of a period of time, a moment of goodbyes. However, this was a snippet from real life. The classroom really was festooned with red, green, and gold paper crafts cut out and pasted together by children's clumsy fingers. Outside, night had fallen and the frigid air laid itself in crisp layers against the old lead paned windows. Gnarled tree branches shivered stoically in the wind's breath beyond the glass.

It was December 13 and that girl of course, was me. This is the room where for the past few months I have learned how to be a children's leader for Bible Study Fellowship. It has been a journey to go from no teaching experience to having a job where I am expected to teach teens at a public French high school and then volunteer to teach 8-10 year olds. I'm still quite green, as they say but I can't help but reminisce a little as I take the unfolding of these circumstances in.

This is the room where we've taught kids about the history of God and His people in the book of Isaiah. Young children have been learning concepts like redemption, grace, recompense, discipline, and gentleness. Isaiah is an intense book, as spiky and uncuddly book as they come but they've borne it well. Their minds are like sponges and it is astonishing to see how they teach us too. We have the opportunity to teach kids about Jesus. Not the blue eyed, wavy haired, tall guy from the flannelgraphs but rather, the long awaited Jesus foretold by the too much truth talking Isaiah. They are hearing about it here, in this old Gothic style church with its pointed stone archways and rivet studded burnished wood doors. It is happening in this church, one of the first Protestant churches built in France after centuries of deadly persecution by the Catholic church.

A church, established in Paris, attended by children of many different nations. All hearing about God. That is awesome.

Tonight the children have gone, the materials are put away, the Bibles are tucked into bags, and hearts are full of Words. I gaze out the window where the spotlights are illuminating the opposite bank of the Seine river, turn on my heel, and head out. Thank you so much, Lord.

France, qui es-tu?

2011-01-22T11:32:00.000-08:00

France, who are you? November.

The town hall had an exhibition recently where they featured citizens of France and their perspectives of What France Means to Me. Here are some of the things they said:

“It's eating couscous with bread.” Elsa

“It's a question of love.” Bernard (Retired)

“Equality, Brotherhood, Liberty.” Leila

“If I wasn't born in France, I never would have had the idea to become a chef.” Guy

“Cheese is France! France is cheese!” Gérard (Gerald)

“A country that's too proud of itself, of its philosophical roots. A totally hypocritical and outmoded bearing that engenders arrogance and pretension to seem like a model in other people's eyes. An unbearable selfishness, an absolutely ridiculous self-importance. Finally, a nation that as well as doesn't manage to own up to its historical contradictions, loathe to open itself to the world because it is unable to equip itself with a plan for the future.” Alexandre (Alexander, student at Political Science University.)

“It was liberty...” Guillaume (William, wilderness mountain guide, Chamonix)

“For me France, it's a country of racists and hypocrites. Yet among all of its defects, this country also has riches such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre museum and plenty of other things too...” Alik. (French Guyana)

“France, it's the country where I was born. It's the country of my childhood. But I don't really feel French. How can you feel French when you have to watch your back everywhere? Yet I am crazy about France and my father fought for France! There will have to be two more generations for us to be considered French. A second generation North African girl who's kinda sexy, for her it's ok. But for us guys, the blacks, the North Africans, it's ****. It's not that we're haters... we have love! When the French soccer team wins, we're happy!” RimK

“In India, I walk barefoot with my staff. The people kiss my feet. I go to Australia and they feed me. In France, they call the police.” Michel (Michael)

Le Château de Vincennes

2011-01-22T10:12:00.001-08:00

The Vincennes Castle. November. This is about 10 minutes from my place. God is good!

Les Céréales

2011-01-22T10:04:00.000-08:00

Cereal. November.

In France milk is not refrigerated until after it has been opened. It has to do with their pasteurization process. Don't worry. They know what they are doing. They invented pasteurization after all, as in, Louis Pasteur was French. So, in celebration of this lovely man, I have started eating cereal and drinking milk again. I don't have any bowls yet so breakfast involves a lot of pouring, re-pouring, and re-pouring. There is really no point of this post, it is just to give you a small glimpse of small differences that one faces in a foreign country.

Sophie

2011-01-22T09:50:00.000-08:00

Noam (the son of a friend) and his Sophie. November

In France every child receives a little rubber squeaky toy giraffe named Sophie when they are little. It seems to be a prerequisite of being French. At first it struck me as extremely silly and straight up weird until I recalled my own dear Teddy from my childhood. Alright, so all French kids get Sophie giraffes whereas all American kids get Teddy Bears. I'm feeling a bonding experience!

Giverny

2011-01-22T09:38:00.000-08:00

Garden and home of the artist Claude Monet. It was wonderful for us to get out of the city and into nature for a picnic.

Après Tout

2011-01-22T09:11:00.000-08:00

After all. November 21.

One of the things I brought from Montana to Paris to share with my students is something we all have collecting dust back in storage. A high school yearbook. The venerable yearbook and all it represents does not exist in France and I am eager to share this experience with them.

In order to prepare for class, I decided to peruse the pages of this paper trail down memory lane. It's amazing how books catapult you into another world! I forgot how much I loved high school. I forgot how hard it was. The future was full of promise but absolutely unfathomable. Sure, people had told us stories about things like bills and taxes but it meant nothing. Our ability to analyze Joseph Conrad was newly minted and we deemed ourselves clever because we knew what genetically modified organisms were. We felt sneaky when we skipped class (Well Mom, you had to find out sometime...) and were insecure in all the wrong places. We weren't sure how all of these things would end up being useful but adults assured us that we had tons of potential and would “go far”. And you know what? We believed it.

And before you know it, you find yourself years later, sitting on your bed in your pajamas reading the careless scribble of old friends, “you are so genuine” and “let's go camping this summer” wondering what in the world happened. Those adults said you were so full of potential! You examine yourself and wonder incredulously, is this the potential they meant? I mean, of course, so much crazy stuff has happened since they flipped your tassel from one side of your cap to the other. When you think about what life has brought about it makes your head spin. But is THIS what they meant?

I was a decent student so of course I had future aspirations. There was no concept about what life might actually look like though, I just was sure I was going to “have the time of my life.” No kidding, the yearbook actually quoted me saying that. We are chock full of clichés when we are in high school. We're too young to realize they are way overused.

Look at your life. Is this what you expected you'd be doing right now? Are you who you thought you'd be? I know, I know, your concept of your future self at 18 was pretty vague, but try. It is disappointing, isn't it? You aren't half as cool as you thought you would be. I thought I would have accomplished so much more by now. Instead, I find myself in a tiny studio apartment with a sliver of a black city sky poring over a book of memories wondering what the heck happened to my dreams.

Since I've already said one cliché another won't hurt. Upon graduation our commencement speaker gave us a piece of advice that has rung more true every year; prepare to be surprised. That is to say, life is going to take you places you didn't expect. I sure didn't expect all of this! If you had told me I would be here in Paris, France you may as well have told me I'd be living on the moon. It was simply out of my scope of imagination. It is, I must admit, still a bit out of my scope but I am attempting to deal with it. Is this better than what could have been? I don't know. It must be, for it is what has resulted from decisions through Faith. Life is a funny story, yet funny not in the “ha ha” way. It is in the bewildered, “Holy smokes, how did I get here?” sense.

Remember that look adults would give us at times when we were teenagers? Like they had some secret knowledge? Often we just figured it was that Look; of adults being old, unimaginative, and condescending. Now we see a little better, and realize that look meant, “My, you are young. You've so much to do and learn in life. It'll be good for you.” Dang it. They were right. I hate being wrong! We haven't accomplished what we thought we would but seem to have done plenty of other things we never fathomed. Guess that's not so bad, is it? I am going to do my best to do something with this random, glop of a thing called "my" life, scary as it may be. You? We may not be half as cool as we thought we would be but at least we are here with beating hearts. That is something we can't say for all of our friends from back then. So, don't forget how unexpected life is. Don't forget how rich life is. If worse comes to worst, we can at least be glad we aren't in high school anymore.

Apprendre le Français

2011-01-13T16:03:00.001-08:00

Learning French
(November) The other day I rounded the corner of a cobblestoned church courtyard and encountered this vision. This image recalled to mind all of the educational videos we watched in French classes back in highschool. It represented a France that was a little 80's, as the videos were a bit dated due to budgets. Everything always looked miniature, really old, a bit dingy, and so romantic. It always seemed like a different universe.

Les Cookies

2011-01-13T15:46:00.001-08:00

(November) Judy, an American friend of mine gave me some chocolate chip cookies she made! Cookies are very American and considered trendy around these parts. They call them les cookies.

Oh, sweet cookies! Yes, the pastries here are delicious but homemade cookies with milk (of cow or plant) are pretty hard to beat. It makes you feel like you're eight years old again, sitting at the old wooden kitchen table telling your mom about your day at school.

Reconnaissante

2011-01-13T15:36:00.000-08:00

Thankful.

Things I am thankful for today, on Thanksgiving:

The blowdryer I bought today*
Friends, whether they be old or new
Getting to live here in Paris and feeling more at home in it
The moon in the cloud scattered indigo sky, above my building in the soft Parisian night
Family to Skype with
Getting a letter from Rachel (why do I seem destined to have so many friends named Rachel?)
Chivalrous French men like the man tonight in the metro who stood holding the door from a long way off for me.
My bed
Two sinks in my apartment
The snow we received today
Delicious food, getting to eat pumpkin pie today
Feeling appreciated
Feeling poor but actually owning so much
Being able to draw, having more talent than I make use of, which I hardly ever do.
Having phone calls I need to return
Being able to speak French
Getting home safely despite a man hassling me on a deserted street (It was the only way back!)
This computer works, I have internet
Knowing God is ever present

*The posts got a little mixed up. Les Filles should actually go right before this post.

Chez moi, pour la première fois

2011-01-13T14:53:00.000-08:00

My place, for the first time. October.

This will be the last entry about housing for a long time, I swear.

I never would have imagined that my first place would be in Paris. Wow! I have never lived alone and always relished life with roommates. It will be an adjustment. No more enlightening discourses about boys, nerd sessions of surfing the net together, “Let's Google it!”, or late night runs to play pranks on the neighbors. It is a 12m squared studio apartment with a bathroom (yahoo! I have my own bathroom!) in a closet. All of the fridge space is mine! All mine!

One thing for sure I will need to adjust to is the shower. Oh shower, I have only spent time with you once and already I know you will be the bane of my life. Are you so frustrating because you are only 2ft by 2ft? The real reason why French women don't get fat is because they don't have any room to grow! How does one cleanse oneself in this cranny? In order to wash one's hair one must stand at a certain angle so there is enough space to lift the elbows. Why on earth would you want to turn around in a shower? Ridiculous! As for shaving legs, well, let's just say going old school French is the principle option*. It is a good thing I like quick showers, there is only enough hot water for one! Once again, it's astounding how this city, the most “civilized” of the world, home of Dior, Cartier, and Hermès, lacks in such areas. Perhaps it is this paradox that makes it so attractive. The shower head is affixed to the wall by two brave rubber bands - it's kind of fun, you feel clever like MacGyver every time you take a shower. Figuring out a way to reach the bottle of shampoo on the bottom without toppling headlong out of the stall is a lesson in persistence and creativity. Something about it recalls using a turkish toilet at 17,000 ft in the Himalayas while reeling with altitude sickness; not exactly an experience that one daydreams about. But it certainly makes for an unparalleled sense of accomplishment every time you take a shower. It adds a great boost to the start of the day.

Putting my table together from IKEA. Two firsts. Feeling handy.

My mattress looks as though someone may have died of cholera on it but who cares. It is in the most beautiful city in the world!

*The French are actually very well versed in hair removal. The stock in any pharmacie (drugstore) demonstrates that.

Ne t'inquiètes pas, petit moineau

2011-01-13T14:18:00.000-08:00

Don't worry, little sparrow. Last week of October.

We climbed the four flights of stairs to look at the apartment. It was Parisian, which is to say, not much*. But it was great compared to what I had seen already. So fantastic that I was ready to say yes before we had taken two steps inside. We examined the place and at the end I told him that I would take it. Would he like my papers now? When would he want to meet to do the other paperwork, and then, consequently, when could I move in?

He reflected for an instant, lips pursed in the French way. “It is very important for us French to welcome you Americans here to our country” (every other landlord I've met with missed that memo!), “I am going to do this because I trust you. I am going to give you the key right now. You can move in today and I will not charge you for this last week of October, and you can just write me a check for November. We can do the rest of the paperwork later.” What? This is the part where you could have scraped my jaw up from the floor. You are giving me the key? You don't know me from Adam. And, free rent for a week? Pinch me, somebody, please. Many landlords would have asked for a vial of blood if it was legal.

So to hear this man utter these kind, generous words to me made me wonder if perhaps there was a van waiting downstairs to kidnap me or... is God just this good?

I considered it. He's giving me the key. It really works in this door so it isn't a scam for the check. I ran through the other details. Yes, it was bizarre, but it worked. Seriously, God?

We settled the matter and he took me to meet the lady who looks after everything in the building “Parce qu'il faut le faire.” (It's a must) Francois assured. She was not the gardienne (concierge), but kind of a hen mother. Aka she'd taken it upon herself to occupy herself with everyone's affairs. She looked perfectly honest and French. She was of a certain age, her eyes were myopic and distorted by her glasses in a charming way, and like many older women, loved to visit. After seeing her genuine affection for Francois, I felt reassured.

Francois and I shook hands. He scooted off on his moto and I scaled the stairs again to look at the studio apartment. Mon apart. (My place)I turned each lock two times to the left in the old paint chipped door and stepped inside. It will need some work and a lot of javel (bleach) but it is going to be my home for the next few months! I had to laugh at myself. I have been turning myself inside out about housing, and here it is! The timing, although it seemed all wrong, worked out perfectly. The old tenant had just moved out which allowed for me to move in today. If I had insisted on shoving my way into one of those other living situations it would have been all wrong.

You'd think that after a couple of decades we'd learn basic lessons like trust, obedience, and patience. Instead, we end up having to learn these same principles repetitively like squealing broken records. It feels like we are walking blindfolded with only a voice to guide us and claw as we may at the blindfold we cannot tear it away. We must trust that it will be ok and discern that one voice from all of the screeching around us. I have a lot of stubbed toes from tripping but I'm trying. “Don't worry,” the Voice says, “I know what I am doing little sparrow.” God is just this good.

*There are many chic apartments in Paris, just not any in this budget. Also, this is not intended to be a complainer or a princess. It is loads better than what you'd find in many a third world country. It is "not much" in comparison to American standards. Phew. My conscience feels much better now.

Quel drôle d'oiseau!

2011-01-13T14:04:00.000-08:00

What a funny bird! (An expression to describe a weird person. In this case, me.) The last week of October.

There are certain things we think we can handle. There are other things in life that are just beyond us. This is a story about the latter.

The other day I left a message on a landlord's phone inquiring about an apartment. If you are obliged to to leave a message you don't really expect a call back. So, when I left a message for Francois I figured it would amount to nothing more than saying at least I was making an effort.

However, lo and behold, the next day I had a message on my phone! Yes! “The apartment is taken.” Oh sadness. “But, listen,” he said, “I have another apartment by Nation. Perhaps that would interest you?” I nearly laughed. Actually, I did. Nation is where I wanted to live but hadn't found anything in the environ that fit my budget. I called him back, dang! Not there! I left a message, even though I knew if this apartment was as good as he described, it would be gone in a day, maybe two.

This is the crazy thing though. It took us over a week to connect but during this whole time he saved the apartment for me. This is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of. It is so absurd that when we finally set a day to look at the apartment I wondered if I should have someone come with me – what if it was a scam to kidnap young foreign women? The description of the apartment, the price, the whole set up seemed too good to be true. Yet, I had prayed a lot these last few months that God would lead the housing situation in such a way to show that only He could have led it.

I went to the neighborhood before our meeting to get a feel for the area and was filled with even more trepidation. Why? It was exactly, absolutely, what I had hoped for. As you may well know, I am not Mademoiselle Emotional or Compulsive. Decision making is a long and annoying process for anyone within a 10ft radius of me. However, as soon as I walked down the street a sinking sensation plummeted like an anvil. “If I don't get this place I will be really disappointed.” The neighborhood was typically Parisian with improvements in all the right places. It had a wide boulevard crowned with leafy trees down the middle. Trees! Do you know how rare this is? Sinking down onto a park bench it was just too easy to imagine life here. I could select produce at that fruitier, do laundry there, and it was easy to envision bands creating music in that gazebo a few steps away. The boulanger (baker)across from my hypothetical apartment had a long line of customers outside: the tell tale sign of a good boulanger. City is city, but this neighborhood, although vibrant, was charming and quieter. It was Paris for Parisiens, not tourists.

Several days later found me waiting on a green park bench for Francois outside the building. This time was spent praying that in two hours time I would not be either a) on my way bound and tied to some human trafficking depot or b) out on the street, insanely disappointed. He was late so I had more time to think than I had anticipated. This is a dangerous combination. Although God didn't gift me with quick decision making skills he did give me an overactive imagination. So, the next few moments were spent musing about who this Francois would be. Would he be old? Hope not, old guys struggle with being available to help you if you need it. They would much rather be at home tending to their bunions. Do old men even get bunions? Would he be young? Hope not. A very straightforward, professional relationship sounded great. He was going to be my landlord after all, with a key to my place. What then? Dark? Light? French? Armenian-French? Hmm... Francois, qui seras tu? Who will you be? Ideally, he would be a man in his 40's, married – loyally, very nice, sandy colored hair, and very professional. Why spend precious brain cells thinking about such things? And you thought I filled my spare time with cultured thoughts, ie, Sartre and his philosophical legacy in Paris. Ha! Except I don't know much about him. Tant pis.

Across the way there was a man stepping off his motorcycle. I knew it was Francois. I told myself to not be ridiculous, there are 10 men getting off of their motorcycles at this intersection. And there are about 30 other men hanging out around here. Why did I think this particular one was him? It just was. So much so that I hopped off the bench and walked straight up to him. Yep. It was him. Weird. Then he took off his helmet, and he looked exactly like how I had envisioned him. He had the air of one who reads Bonsoir Lune (classic French children's book) to his children at night before he tucks them in. Ok, God. This is really weird.

Deux Filles

2011-01-13T13:44:00.000-08:00

Two Girls. Nov 25

There are two kinds of girls in this world. I, who once was of one kind am now one of the other. It took months of reflection in this place called France if this was truly worth the cost. It doesn't come for free, this change. Is it worth it? Once you traverse the void, you can't go back. Do I really have space in my life for this? Every morning, like the rising sun in the eastern sky, far from the eyes of anyone waking up in this city of concrete and stone, the question arose. Do I really want it? Do I need it?

Without it meant every day was haunted by an inescapable chill. No matter what I did, it persisted. It was like a wet frog perched on my shoulder, mocking, never leaving. Once the rhythm of the day was set and daily cares brought welcome distraction I thought I could dismiss it. Oh! Of course I don't need it! Look, I can live just fine without it. What a wasteful, plebeian need it was. What fool would insist on it?

But then, in the weakness of morning, when the covers are warm and the waiting world outside is cold it sounds so good. So warm and dry.

So after two months of this soul searching, partially due to an emotionally exhausting day, I gave in. Headfirst, all in, throw the key away abandon. I became one of those girls with a sèche cheveux. A hairdryer. My American hairdryer won't work here in France. Now, when I step out of the shower I am able to have the luxury of truly dry hair. In this damp country your hair does not naturally air dry. Thus, if you start out your day with wet hair, you will end it with wet hair. This combination promotes a constant penetrating chill. Of which no longer must be endured! As guilty as I may feel leaving the world's majority of women who cannot own a hairdryer, the luxury is sweet, and most poignantly, dry.

L'Histoire des Trois*

2011-01-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

Story of the Three

Due to my current location in the banlieue (suburbs) I take the RER. A lot. Riding public transportation allows for prime time people watching if you are into that sort of thing. The other night two young guys of Middle Eastern origin gallivanted onto the train and plopped themselves down several seats away. They were garbed in the typical look of their station: large watches prominently displayed on cardamon skin, stream lined track jackets with full length zippers, stone washed jeans, thin soled Pumas, and close cropped dark hair. This wouldn't have warranted any out of the ordinary attention save that they were singing in gorgeous, honeyed voices. They were singing in Arabic style but with French lyrics. Arabic music is beautiful but seems a conundrum with its lilts and flourishes.

Well, these RER troubadours broke it all down for me without realizing it. One of them was being silly, proclaiming, “La Gare d'Austerlitz, la Gare d'Austerlitz, c'est pas bon, comme les francais” (The Austerlitz train station, The Austerlitz train station, it isn't good, like the french). In doing so, he revealed how simple Arabic pop songs can be. That simple phrase became a long curlicued descent of melody. It was pretty neat. He kept singing for several minutes, adding onto the song he'd created, enlightening a foreign girl several seats away of the delights of his music, without even knowing it.

Several nights ago a little girl of was perched on a seat in the train with her mother. She was adorable! Her hair was bobbed in a straight line below the ears in typical Chinese fashion with a purple bow neatly tied upon it. Eyes bright and full of enthusiasm, she sat straight backed on the edge of her seat telling her mother a story with much animation. In perfect French. Ok, so no one speaks a language perfectly when they are seven but hers was still superior to mine. She has clearly been speaking French since she could walk, as her accent was native. Every time she opened her mouth, I was thrown into raptures over her impeccable pronunciation. Yep, I was envious of a seven year old. I suppose it struck me as unique since we are both Asian and her round little face reminded me of my own. Despite the cuteness of her speech she was also the brunt of all of my jealousy. She doesn't know how lucky she is to be fluent. Mom and Dad, why couldn't we have lived in France when I was little? Then I'd sound like her too. Lucky little sucker.

It is such a joy how polite people can be here! Case in point, not too long ago I found myself sitting on a bench with a black teenage boy on the train platform. He had his “cool” look altogether: Nike high tops with the fluorescent tongue lapping out, slim jeans with rips in all the right places, black jacket, and black Eastbay brand backpack carelessly slung over his shoulder. (The French love Eastbay brand, don't ask me why). To complete the look, he had shaved a racing stripe into one of his eyebrows, a practice celebrated by young mecs (guys). In the morning crisp his breath left white puffs in the air. He was just that cool. And because he is under thirty five in the city, he had earphones shoved into his ears and a cellphone in his hand like a regular appendage, sending out texts at the speed of light. You see a million like him every day. I returned to my book.

“Excusez-moi, Madame.” Who?

Oh! Is he talking to me? Madame? That is so formal, and old! I am so not a Madame! I'm a Mademoiselle.

He was addressing me. He then proceeded to ask in the most humble and polite fashion possible if this might be the train that passes by M___? I gave him his answer, accepted his genteel gratitude, then chuckled. Never would I have pegged him to be such a gentleman. Guess you never know.

*Title is a play on words from Balzacs Histoire des Treize.

Racing stripe.

Suis-je bête?

2010-12-19T07:24:00.000-08:00

Am I stupid? (end of octobre)

The very first day I arrived in Paris I went to look at an apartment. The apartment was beautiful. It was spacious with white walls, had a real kitchen with an actual stove, and two couches in a separate living room that welcomed you out onto a balcony with a view of a park. Julien and Jean-Romain, my potential roommates, were relaxed and friendly and it was easy to envision us getting along.

But after a lot of hemming and hawing, two things I am talented at, decided I wouldn't take it.

Even as I uttered “no”, I feared it was a mistake. The set up was perfect! Everything about it was great. If I took it, I would be completely fluent in no time, as both of them only spoke French. Yet something about it just didn't quite sit well: it wasn't in Paris. Close, but not quite. And I couldn't shake the feeling that I might regret having come this far and not live in Paris.

And now I wonder if I am just a straight up idiot. When I passed on the offer I acknowledged that housing would be incredibly difficult. And it has been.

I have two leads, if you could call them that, one in a chambre de bonne* in the same building as one of my friends and another such spot in the 16ème arrondissement (neighborhood). The only problem is that they are both riddled with... idiosyncrasies. The first place only has a ceiling window and is so small that in order to have enough space to sleep you have to fold the bed down from the wall. Hey! I could wash dishes in the sink while sitting on my bed! The toilet is in the hall that you share with five, perhaps more people in their own chambres de bonnes. It looks straight out of a “Meth, not even once” ad, which makes me wish I was on meth to make going to the loo more enjoyable. I can't move in yet, even if desired because the landlord is struggling to evict the current tenant. Eviction laws are particularly tricky in France and the guy that currently lives there is well aware. Hence, he hasn't been paying his rent, has been violent, and is making himself a smelly nuisance. However, if and when they get this guy out, I would be able to be neighbors with my friend and live in the 5ème arrondissement, aka heart of the happening Latin Quarter.

The second place doesn't have a kitchenette but the landlord told me he will let me know when it is installed. Even I am no fool, I know this could take forever. But he seems interested in renting to me. The 16ème could be nice. It is a bit calmer but I heard it is near to Little America. Hmm.

So, that original apartment sounds more and more like Eden to me as I scour this city for housing. Am I just stupid? Maybe, probably. But oh yeah. It wasn't in Paris. I knew when I said no to that first place I could end up living in a below par spot. I might. But it will be, Lord willing, in Paris.

*a chambre de bonne is a miniscule studio apartment that is on the top floor of older buildings. These were servant's quarters back in the day. They generally consist of a room with a window, counter with a hot plate, a bed, a sink, and a shower.

J'aime.

2010-12-17T12:37:00.000-08:00

I love. (octobre)

Here is a little video from « my » spot at the Tuileries Gardens. I love this park, and not just in a Steve Carrell « I love lamp » sort of way. I really love, love, love this park. The view encompasses the Louvre, Orsay Museum, and Eiffel Tower. That posse of men you see are playing pétanque, or boules.

(If you don't know where the « I love lamp » reference is from, don't look into it. It is from a really bad movie that would make you think poorly of me. If you do know where this reference is from, you can laugh with me, knowing that even though we've both seen this movie, we aren't really so stupid to be defined by the movies we have seen. In fact, we are very refined and have many leather bound books.)

Sois Cool.

2010-12-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

Be cool. (octobre)

Ah, le vélo. C'est un loisir qu'on n'oublierait jamais comment faire. C'est bizarre que ca marche comme ça, n'est-ce pas? Malgré les années depuis qu'on l'a fait, les muscles se souviennent comment équilibrer le corps. La concentration n'est pas nécessaire, le corps fait tout, il même.

Le truc difficile est de laisser faire, de ne pas trop penser. Mais ça, ce n'est pas facile, n'est pas?

Oh, the bike. It is something you could never forget how to do. It's weird how that works, isn't it? Despite how many years it has been, our muscles remember how to balance the body just so. Concentration is unnecessary, the body does it all on its own.

The difficult thing is to just let it do it itself, to not think too much. But that isn't easy, is it?

Eglise de Toutes Les Nations

2010-12-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

Church of All Nations (mi-octobre)

Despite having been here several months I have been really lazy with my French. No, really, I have been, believe me. I should attempt to make an effort. So, this is me making an effort. The French is followed up by the English version.

Comme je suis nouvelle à la cité et je n'ai pas beaucoup d'amis je suis devenue gourmande des cultes des églises protestantes! Parfois je vais aux quatre d'eux, mais normalement, ce n'est que trois. J'ai le temps, donc pourquoi pas? On peut louer Dieu, chanter les chants en français, et apprendre du bon truc. Et, de temps en temps, on voit des choses qu'on pourrait pas voir ailleurs.

Par exemple, l'autre jour j'étais à une église à la rue de Lille, une église vraiment historique, belle, et couronnée avec les vitraux de tout couleur. Quand on chant dans cette église là, il semble qu'on vit un rêve. On y était, en chantant, dans ce rêve magnifient, quand tout au coup, un souris a traversé le sol au milieu de tout le monde. J'ai entendu dire des souris d'église mais ils était toujours dans les contes du Moyen Age, pas de deux mille dix.

Vraiment? J'étais étonnée. Je sais que je suis en France, ou il y a les vieux bâtiments et moins de concerne au propos des choses hygiéniques... mais ça? C'est un peu trop, n'est-ce pas? J'ai jeté un coup d'œil une autre fois au sol. Oui, il était là encore. Il n'était pas pressé, ce petit souris. Il semblait que tout le monde s'en foutait de lui. Personne a crié. Peut être c'était tout a fait normale pour eux. Peut être ils ont tous regardé le film Ratatouille et maintenant ils aiment les rongeurs.

Je cherche un communauté chrétien mais je n'ai pas eu d'attentes d'un communauté comme celui-ci! Bien avec les rongeurs!

Since I am new in this city and don't have many friends I have been filling up on church services like a fat kid in a twinkie factory. Some weekends I have gone to four services but generally average three. I have the time, so why not? You get to go praise God, sing praise songs in French, and learn stuff. From time to time, you see things you couldn't see otherwise.

For example, the other day I was in a church on the Rue de Lille. It is a church rich in history, beautiful, and the sanctuary is crowned in stained glass of every color. When you sing in this church, you feel like you're living a dream. So, there I was, singing my little heart out in this magnificent dream, when all of the sudden, a mouse crossed the floor right in the middle of everyone. I've heard of church mice before but they were always in Medieval tales, not in 2010.

Really? I was amazed. I know that I am in France, where there are old buildings and less concern about hygiene... but that? It's a bit much, isn't it? I looked again. Yep, he was still there. He was in no rush, this little mouse. It seemed that no one even cared about him. No one screamed. Maybe this was totally normal for them. Perhaps they had all seen the movie Ratatouille and love rodents now.

I have been looking for Christian community but this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. With rodents!

Tombeau Des Missionaires

2010-11-27T07:56:00.001-08:00

October. Pics from Père Lachaise Cemetery

The other day some friends informed me that France is called the Tombeau des Missionaires, The Missionaries' tomb. In other words, the Missionary Killer because it is such a mentally difficult country to be missionaries in. Yikes.

La Chasse

2010-11-27T07:12:00.000-08:00

October. One of many pages of research.

The Hunt. As soon as we lock eyes it is clear I am dead meat. You might as well throw me on a spit and call me dinner. The heat of the coals are hot and the appetites are mounting. Determined eyes are underscored in kohl black war paint. There are long talons* and curly locks in a frenzied array, an afterthought to the speed at which this predator flies. Red tainted claws clutch a veritable weapon in hand, symbols fly through it, and proclaim testament to the greatest weapon she possesses: perfectly balanced, impeccably native French. I bet I can tell you what she's texting into her smartphone right now, “Chui là, il n'y a q d étrangers. C à moi.”

A long sinuous threat of nicotine smoke seeps from her mouth. She's acting nonchalant in that way champions lope around to intimidate and psych out their competitors pre-race. Her bonjour was just the right amount of civility plus cold dismissal. I know what she texted, “I'm there, there's only foreigners. It's mine.”

I really wish she wasn't right. But she probably is.

You see, this is a city with more supply than demand, more renters than square centimeters of rental space. We are all scrambling in this urban jungle hunt for the proprietor that will shine grace upon that lucky someone. The proprietor puts up the add in the morning, “9 meters squared, show up at 3pm. 45 rue Charenton.” That afternoon, he has 15 people queued up on the sidewalk, poised and seething. He leans back and figures out who he likes the looks of the best, and most importantly, who has brought their wheelbarrow of French paperwork completed and handy.

She has every identity card with the necessary French seal on it, she can prove that she has a garant, a French person who has the means to back her up if she can't pay her highway robbery of a rent check every month. How can you have a French garant if you just arrived and don't know anyone? Much less a French person who is willing to back you? Here you can't get a bank account if you don't have a permanent address and you can't get a place if you don't have a French bank account. There are similar conundrums involving cell phones and other essentials but recounting them would be too depressing. It is the chicken and egg syndrome but the proprietor doesn't care about how you like your eggs, he just wants the highest bidder.

So, you scramble, you pray, you get blessed and a wonderful French person offers to be your garant. You muck through the paperwork and patch together a ragtag battery and embark in the hunt. You use your best French and are polite. You ask thoughtful questions, you climb endless stairs to look at bleak apartments. You will yourself to hold yourself together and not die laughing when you find out that your potential future flatmate has the most desperate comb over you have ever seen in your life because you need this place. Questions arise, “How much do I need my own toilet? A shower? A window?” This is Paris, a city carved out of the nooks and crannies of an ancient city that emerged from a swamp. People live in closets and call them fancy names like pieds à terre that sound hopelessly romantic. We show up and find out that no, there is no hot water and there is a mold stain in the shape of the Eiffel Tower behind the door. Inventive of the mold, very creative, but perhaps a little too avant garde for my taste. Thank you anyways.

At night you crash into bed, thankful you have temporary shelter and wonder if perhaps you will end up being like that homeless guy you shared your crepe with at dinner. You know it is ridiculous to feel so stressed and to be comparing yourself to him but you still do because you are overtired and your brain is wandering unchaperoned. Sluggish musings offer that maybe you should have brought your tent over from home. The Bois de Vincennes is beautiful, and plenty of homeless folk do live in those woods...

In the morning you gather your courage once again, put on your war paint, and climb on the metro for the next apartment viewing. You show up, insisting on hope, and there she is, the native French, leaning against the doorway. Oh, to just turn on your heel and slink back into the urban underbrush! Yet you know, you need housing. You tell yourself you must be brave, even though she is going to do her best to flay you alive. While you are stammering to address the proprietor with correct grammar she's already reminiscing with him about how she used to go on vacation as a child in Savoie, just like him! You yank up your bootstraps and leave the best impression you can muster. Merci Monsieur, au revoir. The six flights of stairs creak in empathy as you tumble down and you set your course for the next apartment.

*talons are high heels.

La Colocation ou Pourquoi Je Suis Prête à Déménager

2010-11-27T05:10:00.000-08:00

Mid-October. My bedroom for the moment.

Living in Community or Why I Am Ready to Move Out “Why are you heating that water?” He inquired. “To wash the dishes.” I replied as neutrally as possible. You see, the kitchen doesn't have hot water. So, I heat water to wash dishes because that is sanitary. If we were in the Gobi Desert I wouldn't stress too much, cognizant that water is scarce. This, however, is France, a country perfectly capable of practicing good culinary hygiene. And so, unfortunately, I must admit to annoyance.

As I swirl the water in the saucepan I am using as a washbasin instead of the leaky sink, I reprimand myself. I shouldn't be peeved because it is very kind of him to let me stay here as a favor to his friend, one of my colleagues. He is welcoming a complete stranger into his home to stay while I search for housing. You see, finding an apartment in Paris is very difficult. A girl who moved here from New York said, “I thought housing in New York was bad. This is a 100 times worse.” Thanks, that is encouraging. Yes, I knew housing would be difficult, but this was not exactly the Parisien experience I had envisioned.

In fact, this isn't Paris. This is the banlieue; the suburbs, but don't let this trim word fool you. The suburbs in France are the opposite of American suburbs. In Paris it is generally more desirable to live in the city and the rough parts lie in the surrounding areas. This is not the land of barbeques and polo shirts with loafers. This is the version of suburb where you return home by 10:30pm in honor of safety. Hence, no late night café scenes for this kiddo. Instead, it is a quick goodbye and a mad rush to get on the train for the 30min trip home, a furtive hustle past the shadowed overpasses and other unsavory looking options on the route home from the station. When people hear of where I am living they first make a face, followed by, “You live where?” Because the French like to use pretty phrases for not necessarily pretty things they say, “Oh, that is a 'sensitive' quarter.” This means it is an area with aggression and strife.

However, don't fear. These aren't the most dangerous suburbs. During the day it is fine and you need to just faire attention (be careful) in evening and have a back up plan. Families live and thrive here. The women, often clad in Muslim garb go out in the mornings, pushing their strollers in pairs. Later, it's mostly men and more liberal women. The vast majority of the population hail from former colonies or current DOM-TOMs: overseas states or territories. In other words, it is a predominantly black population, rich in culture. The man I am staying with is from French Guyana, which is north of Brazil. It is a fascinating country! France launches its rockets from there and the capitol is Cayenne. In fact, they have pretty darn good food! He not only is graciously letting me stay but has also cooked meals.

This has been a great opportunity to get to feast on new foods but has also posed a problem. How to say this? Straightforward is probably better. After he cooks meals he does not refrigerate the left overs, he instead leaves them out for days in the pot on the stove, and reheats them for each meal. Now, if these were vegetarian dishes, no sweat. However, they are exclusively meat based. His two young children are robust (how they can go to bed late and wake up early at full volume is astounding) and can handle it but it slowly has been wearing down my system. Finally, my immune system had enough, crashed and burned. Hence the around the clock vomiting and subsequent trip to the doctor.

Try as one might, there is no polite way to say, “Your cooking is making me sick.” Forcing him tochange the way he runs his household is not an option. So, here's hoping sickness keeps its distance, after we have been eating that veal dish for three days now. Moving out sounds delicious.

La Diversité

2010-11-24T14:05:00.000-08:00

Everyday the RER (extended network of the subway system) pumps people from every tribe and nation from the banlieues (suburbs) into the heart of Paris. Pakistan, Madagascar, Brasil, Poland, Hindu, Agnostic, Muslim, it's all here. Metro stations are little Babels and people dress according to their nation. It is beautiful. This France has concrete apartment buildings where families pack into rooms and make dishes rich in spices found on no traditional French plate. Citizens of countries once colonized by France like Algeria and Tunisia or still dependent on France like Reunion or Martinique pour into France with their varying customs. The result is vibrant, rich, and at times, very dissonant.

Read more about banlieues at! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banlieue

Tu Es le Soleil

2010-11-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

You are the Sun. Life is very good today. Across the Seine, on the Ile-de-la-Cité a man is perched on the cobbled embankment with a saxophone. The strains of “When the Saints Go Marching In” are floating over the lapping waves to where I am nestled on a stone bench on the Right Bank. Autumn has settled in and reminds me to give thanks for this warm scarf around my neck. The leaves are turning in honor of the season and a breeze sends them in a prancing, catapulting whirl along the walkway. Despite the tartness in the air, crisp as a fall apple, the sun is of the variety that motivates you to sit as quietly as possible with face upturned to the sun, eyes half closed, to soak up every warm and precious ray.

Several men are doing their best to enjoy this moment as well a few strides away. The clink of their Heinekens and animated conversation in an unknown tongue makes lively accompaniment for the saxophone.

“Vous écrivez? You are writing?” One steps over as he nods towards the notebook where this blog lies half written.
“Oui”
“Ah,” He looks, “En français?” closer, “Anglais? In French? English?”
“En anglais.”
“Vous êtes écrivain? You are a writer?”
“Non, je fais un blog Non, I do a blog.”
“O, le soleil, il vous donne les idées. Oh, the sun, it gives you ideas”
“Oui, c'est ça. Yes, that's it.”

Yes, that's it. It is hard to not feel immensely grateful and a little transported when you find yourself sitting along the Seine on a gorgeous day under such a perfect Sun.

Les Gens Sympas, Les Gens Méchants

2010-11-18T08:28:00.000-08:00

Nice people, mean people. Some people like to visit famous buildings and landmarks when they are new in a country. Yours truly, apparently, seems drawn to visiting medical facilities. Only several days had passed from the last doctor's visit when I found myself in the St. Antoine Emergency Room.

Thankfully, the occasion had nothing to do with my own injury. My friend Rachael had accidentally slammed her finger in an elevator door. It was late Saturday night and we weren't sure what to do about it. Paris has many hospitals but each is specialized. That means one hospital is for eyes, another for hearts, etc... In other words, you can't go to just any hospital for a broken finger. Since it was late we used what little we could find to splint it for the time being. A carton from a wine bottle, yarn, and some random padding works as a great splint, in case you are wondering. I knew those backcountry medicine courses would come in handy some day!

The next morning found us walking to the hospital someone had directed us to when a random man on the street approached us with much concern in his eyes. He had recognized the splint on Rachael's finger which was no small feat, for it resembled a craft project gone awry more than a bandage. It was apparently of the greatest importance to him that we know this was not the hospital for broken bones and that he would love nothing more than to enlighten us. He then shared his own personal experience of broken limbs and care. It was all very sweet and convivial. He sent us off with exclamations of goodwill and most importantly, in the right direction.

Little did we know how much we would need this man's kindness to buoy us as we entered the St. Antoine Emergency Room. Unfortunately, many Americans believe the French are rude and stuck up. Our doctor seemed more than willing to perpetuate this conception. As soon as she discovered we were Americans and I would be translating she sniffed and promptly exited the examination room to never return again. Never. Rachael is an American Brit who has lived here a year and a half calls this the French “F You” button. Pardon her French.

I have to admit, it is an accurate expression. After the boiling frustration of watching her walk by our door, halt with haughty disdain and then stride off again, finally another doctor popped his head in, “Are you being helped?” Nope. Certainly not by Madame le Docteur I Hate Americans. He tracked her down in the corridor, she told him she had it handled. Right... He had read the Hippocratic Oath, unlike our friend the American hater, and found us another doctor.

We weren't really sure if we ought to be furious or laugh at how ridiculous the first doctor was. I'm still not sure. That first guy was really kind, as were the other doctors. At least there's that.

Ouai!

2010-11-12T10:49:00.001-08:00

Yay! Congrats to Jake, who was the first to respond and send me his address. He's getting the first letter! (By the way, that is a French postbox. This may seem obvious to some but a lady I know who has lived here for 6 months just realized that the other day.)

Chez le Medecin

2010-11-12T10:34:00.000-08:00

At the Doctor's office. As we made curlicues around town in Rob's Opel (French car), lost, trying to find the office, I mulled over if it would be worse to be sick or to go to the doctor. Plenty of horror stories have circulated about French medicine, from disinfecting implements over a Bunsen burner before inserting them in the patient's mouth* to no hospital gowns, leaving patients quite exposed. Call me an American puritan, but that sounds cold and awkward. Par contre (on the other hand), thanks to the French Securité Sociale I wouldn't have to take out a mortgage in exchange for medical treatment. Maybe that was the deciding factor, perhaps it was because I knew what had made me sick (but that's another story). Either way, when Rob opened the office door, I complied.

The doctor's office was a set of three rooms tucked above a nondescript pharmacy. Nothing fancy, no sign, no placards describing their education. Just a narrow stairway unfit for anyone over seventy, a crowded waiting room, stale air, and no receptionist in a cardigan to grin at me and say, “Oh good! You're here! Please just fill out forms A through ZZ and sign in blood on the dotted line.” What we did do was say bonjour to every person in the waiting room as the French are really big into acknowledging everyone. I just nodded weakly to their bonjours and keeled over into the nearest chair, green with nausea.

After a half hour of convincing myself the room wasn't spinning and trying not to care that the other patients seemed to think I had the plague, the doctor came. Yep, a one man band. He exchanged the expected French pleasantries and then escorted us into the examination room / office. The room was an homage to the color sea foam, Doris Day and Cary Grant would have approved. I made a beeline for the examination table, eager for his diagnosis even if it was clear no one had cleaned up after the last patient.

But no! The doctor wanted to chat some more, at his desk, at the end of the room. We sat, he regarded me carefully, attentively, hands folded on the table, “Now, what is your name? Tell me what is going on.” In my distressed state I hadn't looked up the vocabulary I may have needed for this visit. Thankfully, we were able to fill in the holes in my repertoire and address all of the symptoms. After our diverting discussion pertaining to my current state of health he nodded and seemed to know what he thought it was. Now to the examination table! Rob stepped out and I steeled myself for the cold and awkward part that I mentioned beforehand. But it never came! The rest of the visit was a very “normal”, acceptably Anglo-Saxon interaction.

Once again we went to the desk and he carefully relayed all of the information. He banned me from going to work for a few days. In the spirit of French bureaucracy he had to fill out government forms because you can't be absent from work in France for more than one day without official medical documentation. In the end, I ended up having a few things going on but nothing a cocktail of medication couldn't take care off. I did all of that throwing up for that? It wasn't even anything really good!

It was a revelation however, to see him do all of the paperwork. A doctor having time to do everything himself? I wanted to ask him if he did his own dictation and accounting too but thought that might be a bit intrusive. He took my cash, 27 measly euros of it and he counted back my change in coin. We stood up, shook hands, he escorted me to the door, and said au revoir (good bye). I didn't sign a syllable or touch a single sheet of paper.

Downstairs, the pharmacist filled the prescription, several minutes and only 20 euros later I limped out, all meds in hand but already feeling better knowing I wasn't dying of some mysterious disease. Later on, when my French Social Security is finalized, they will reimburse 70 percent. It is all really rather comical. For the complexity of all things French, you would think that the medical system would be complex as well. Au contraire, that visit was one of the most painless things I have done in France to date. True, I am paying for it (and many other's medical bills) since I will be paying high taxes here but it feels special for the moment. It is all about perception, isn't it?

* This occurred in 2004 to one of my friends.

D'Être Malade, Ce N'est Pas Marrant.

2010-11-12T10:26:00.000-08:00

Far from Home.

Being sick is no fun. (Mid-October) Remember the first time you were sick away from home, far from the loving arms of mom? Steeped in abject misery because no one knows how to take care of you like she does? No one is there, ready with juice and thermometer in hand.

After a while you get used to it and you just deal with it. Then you go to a foreign country. And you come down with something, and weird things happen to your body that never occurred before and you start to get freaked out, and no one in this blasted country speaks English.* You'd be furious but you are too lethargic to lift your head to scowl.

I'd like to say this has never happened to me but it just did this past week. Oh, yes, I have been sick before in foreign countries, in scarier places with scarier maladies, but never alone. So for a girl who has thrown up three times in her life, vomiting all night and day may indicate she wasn't feeling like a champ. I wasn't feeling like a champ. We'll skip the word vomit (ha ha) but it is disheartening to be miserably sick, thousands of miles away from anyone familiar, and just on this side of delirium to recognize that you can only blame yourself for coming here - it's enough to make you lose your stomach.

Par hazard (by chance), I happened to get a text from one of my colleagues. When he discovered my condition he insisted, “You should go to the doctor. I will take you.” (In case you don't know, I loathe going to the doctor. Those in the medical profession deserve high regard and I have fond memories of my childhood pediatrician but I don't like to go, that's all.) About an hour later, a desperate girl swooned into the doctor's office. This sickness had knocked me down enough to purge my pride. If nothing else came of this errand, that at least was impressive. I did wonder, however, if going to the doctor here in France with its socialized medicine might end up being the biggest shock of these past few days...

*Ok, ok. Plenty of people speak English here. This is added to focus on the frustration of language barriers. Poetic license!

Calling All Coldplay Fans

2010-11-12T10:14:00.000-08:00

Just so you know, the cover of Coldplay's Viva la Vida album is a very famous painting by the French painter Eugène Delacroix called La Liberté Guidant le Peuple (Liberty Leading the People). It highlights the symbol of the nation of France, the peasant girl Marianne, leading the people to revolution and subsequently, freedom. And you thought art history was inaccessible and boring!

I can't send you the original that hangs in the Louvre but I can send you Liberty; Marianne, via her effigy on a little stamp that would arrive on the corner of an envelope with your name on it. Send me your snail mail addresses and I would love to send you a letter!

Bienvenue à France!

2010-11-04T09:30:00.000-07:00

This is one of the white boards in the teacher's lounge. The note in red is a reminder of the next strike march they will be having.

“It's a good thing I came to pick you up at the airport.”

“Why?”

“Because there are strikes today and you may not have been able to get anywhere.” That was the phrase that welcomed me to France. In the following weeks several strikes came and went. As if that wasn't enough French syndicats (unions) decided that September 19 would be the ideal day to start a huge nationwide strike. You may chuckle when you hear why. Currently French workers have the most vacation, short work weeks*, and pampered social benefits from rest of the world's point of view. On top of this, they get to retire at age 60 with a pretty neat pension to ripen in old age like a quality Roquefort cheese: carefully maintained, unperturbed, and given ample opportunity to get stinky and blue.

However, Sarkozy and his support in the government are trying to screw it up for everyone. They want to change the retirement age! They say that France can't be a global competitor or continue to be so generous to its citizens when it isn't economically sound. People are livid. They don't want to retire at 62, they want to retire at 60. Other people agree reform is necessary. Either way, people are on strike. A lot of people.

You see, the French love a good strike. The other day, teachers at school (the ones not on strike) were reminiscing about their first strike, “Oh, I was a freshman when I participated in my first strike...” It is a Gallic** rite of passage. It stems from a proud tradition stemming from the French Revolution and a general admiration of civil unrest. (Today, when I Googled “civil unrest” France was the second entry. Ha ha!) This translates into blockades in front of schools by students (such as mine) and determined supporters filling the streets covered in stickers and banners emblazoned with union logos. Millions of euros have been lost by Air France alone and every industry is feeling it. If your gas station is out of gas because the petrol refineries are blockaded, you can't drive to work, and if you can't work, no one benefits from your service. I haven't been able to get to my school some days due to there being no public transportation.

Can we really blame them? This retirement age is considered to be a given, like we would consider a bathroom being a given in an apartment (it isn't here). If you could have your cake and eat it too, would you? Have great benefits throughout your career and then retire at a young age with great benefits? Hmm, tough choice.

However, the reformers have a point. France is struggling and needs to get itself in gear if it wants to keep up with China, the US, and the others. You can't have your cake and eat it if is only half baked because you couldn't pay EDF (electricity company) to keep the oven on.

*I say short work weeks but I have met many people who work long, hard hours. This seems to be due to being salarié (on salary) or a low guy on the totem pole. It is very difficult to get fired in France due to employment laws so your superior might dump tons of work on you = you work like a beast and they don't get fired despite not meriting their job.

**Gallic refers to the French. The French are generally considered descendants of the Gauls.

Les Menaces

2010-11-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

Note the headcoverings and the full covering by the ladies in the background.

The Threats. Due to more than a few societal issues radical Islam is not pleased with France. One of these reasons was the banning of traditional Muslim head coverings in schools and public buildings. In general, the very large Muslim community feels ostracized and ignored. Relations worsened due to kidnappings of French nationals in Africa and botched attempts by the French to rescue them. Unfortunately, it has been a story involving such tragic words as “retaliation” and “execution”.

The fact that France is an extremely secular country doesn't help. France prides itself in its separation of church and state whereas Muslim nations are defined by their religion. Two extremes don't make a right, you might say. It is like repeatedly hitting a bruise, one can only stand it for so long before blowing up.

During my first few weeks here the terrorist threat level soared to alarming levels. Bomb threats sneered by al-Qaeda based in North Africa sent everyone in a scurry, including the evacuation of one of the main train stations in Paris and the Tour Eiffel. Potential bomb targets (like the American Church) set security guards in place to check handbags and question entrants. Sometimes, while riding the métro (subway), I've envisioned what it would look like to watch a bomb explode through the underground tunnels where many threats have been targeted. The most impressive show would be at the Bastille métro station, as the approach is curving and the hot orange blast would pummel through the connected métro cars. This thinking may be macabre but not altogether unrealistic. Public places have been carefully monitored and policemen in heavy boots with muzzled German shepherds have been a constant reminder of the specter of fear the terrorists hope to incite.

Excusez-MOI!

2010-10-28T06:18:00.000-07:00

Excuse Me! There is an art to knowing who to ask for directions when you are lost. Men in suits walking briskly, teenage girls on cellphones, and shady men are generally good to avoid. So, a woman walking slowly with a babe in arms ahead seemed reasonable. She carried the air of someone walking in her own neighborhood and didn't have the "I want to mug you" vibe. The black folds of her hajib (head covering traditionally worn by Muslim women) was modestly arranged and her manner rather solemn but she was my best bet. "Excusez-moi, Madame, pourriez-vous me dire où la gare est situé?" (Excuse me madame, could you tell me where the train station is?) Well, at least that was the intent before the words congealed in my throat as she turned to face me. Bam! Her breasts were bare as could be and she was nursing her baby as she walked along the street. It was the shock of all shocks to approach a conservatively dressed Muslim woman from the back to find that she is literally letting it all hang out in the front. She clarified in a thick accent where to go while I tried my hardest to act as though it was perfectly normal to converse with a topless Muslim woman on a frequented street.

After, I reeled on the sidewalk convincing myself this would not scar me for life. The whole process of childbearing is beautiful and slightly revolting to all those who have not experienced it. We observe from a distance, bewildered, but know this is the mystery of life. This particular situation however, was a bit extreme. For lack of a reasonable explanation of what just transpired, I stepped off the curb and resolved to just laugh at the irony.

Une Carte Postale de Paris

2010-10-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

This SDF (homeless man) was sleeping alongside a lovely building with classical proportions named after René Descartes. It was Descartes who said, “I think therefore I am.” I wonder if this man feels he Exists as much as you and I simply because he thinks.

A Postcard From Paris. Paris. Say it out loud. Just the sonority of the word evokes an aura of sophisticated indulgence and unattainable chic. We as foreigners acknowledge it as just a little out of reach, as a place with narrow alleyways and candle lit cafés that will never reveal itself to the étranger (stranger, foreigner). It is the Paris we see on postcards: antiquated buildings steeped in charm near Montmartre, of beret topped book sellers along the Seine River, the elegant feat of engineering that is the Eiffel Tower. It is the Paris we see in movies: amorous couples entwined on park benches, intrigue and quirky story lines, all of course, in melodious French. The list goes on: the baguette, a mademoiselle pedaling a bicycle, stems of wine, and wheels of fragrant cheese. We hear of Paris and the mouths of our imaginations water.

This Paris is breathtaking, and it is very much what it is. However, just as all of us carefully construct the image we desire to present to others without appearing artificial, Paris has done just the same. The self we present to the world may be a facet of our person but certainly only skims the surface, as much as we like to tell ourselves we are “real” and transparent. Of course you are real - but you are only showing me 10% of your entirety.

And so it also goes with Paris. Paris also is gritty, the Seine is revoltingly polluted, and the handles in the metro are sometimes so greasy you can hardly take hold when it lurches. The aromas of patisseries (pastry shops) interweaves with the stench of the gutters. The mystery France likes to arouse our jealousy with is also the same engine that drives a confounding bureaucratic system with millions of sheets of superfluous paperwork. As winter approaches, the sky falls into a gray depression. Below, homeless people sleep under the city's famous bridges and on the doorsteps of boutiques, and the crotte (droppings) on the sidewalk doesn't only come from dogs. Guys drop trow on the boulevard to take a leak – this is the “most civilized city in the world”? People with names like Jiwon (Asia) or Suleman (Arabic) rather than Marie or Antoine know what it feels to be marginalized. Smooth Bordeaux wines cannot soothe racial tensions or wash away the raw messages spurted out in graffiti.

This is Paris too. And it is good to know this part. As we develop friendships we begin to learn more about the other person, the idiosyncrasies, the weird things, the down right annoying things. However, in finding these things out we find they are a real person too, just like us. Not perfect, yet interesting. And if you ask me, that is way better.

Nothin' But Class.

2010-10-11T08:03:00.000-07:00

I have never tried this stretch but this man seems to think it works well enough. Oh, the French.

Qu'est-ce que tu fais, toi?

2010-10-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

Little toy boats ready to set sail.

What are you doing? Many of you have found out recently that I am in France. The general response is, “What in the world is she doing over there?” Well, as luck would have it, a random plane ticket for Paris arrived in the mail one day and I figured, “Heck, why not?” And skipped towards the nearest tarmac.

Ok, not really. Here's what really happened.

During college a professor mentioned a program through the French Ministry of Education and French Embassy to teach English in public French schools. It sounded a bit pointless to me at the time; why would I go to France to speak English? And teaching? Scary! Then, after college a friend of mine did this same program. She hated it and left early. Then, two years ago, a girl next to me on an plane just happened to be on her Christmas break from this program. We discussed it, and it began to sound a bit more interesting. I listed it under my “Maybe but probably not” section of my mental Life Plans diagram. (Yes, I am weird like that)

Fast forward to this past January. Life was good, I was loving being in the Valley, snowboarding, having a stable job, etc... However, even though I was enjoying my cush life, I know myself well enough to recognize my tendency towards restlessness. “Yes, I like my life now, but come Fall?” I wondered. Being restless can be a blessing, since it propels us forward but at other times it feels like a blasted curse.

It was then I remembered this teaching program. Hmmm... The funny thing is, if you can call it that, is that the deadline for the application was in a week. I considered, prayed, and it soon became apparent (as in, 5 min) that the clincher on the whole thing would be getting recommendations in time. I figured that I would ask the appropriate people (old profs) if they could do this within the time frame. If not, no problem, I would take it as a clear indication and would go on with my life. With this, I figured I probably wouldn't be applying. I asked, they were thrilled, and they had submitted them within days. Wow! Alright. I switched the “French Brain” back on and set to work writing essays and applying in French.

April: An email arrived with “Acceptance to the 2010-2011 TAPIF Program - Académie de Versailles” in the subject line. “WhooHoo! Er, I think?” You see, I had held this opportunity pretty lightly. I had applied without the full intention of saying yes if I was accepted. Now I had to really decide.

We all have different ways of coming to decisions and my pattern of reasoning consists of anything but a pattern. It is illogical, influenced by many superfluous factors, and is overall backwards in its execution. Have you ever heard of how the sure sign of madness is doing the same thing repeatedly with the expectation that the next time the result will vary? Classic case right here. But I'll spare you the details and will share with you the central reasoning of why, in the end, I said yes.

1. God gives us passions. Eric Liddle* said it best, "God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure." The world is vast, beautiful, and fascinating. Why do I love France, French, and traveling? No clue. I am going to maximize this absurd passion and trust that God uses me through it. Perhaps someday He'll reveal why.

2. The concept of doing this absolutely freaked me out. If something intimidates you, that is the very reason why you should probably do it.

3. I would like to become fluent in French. We'll see how that goes!

4. I knew that if I didn't do it I would always look back and wonder, “What would have been?” 26 is young but it is old enough to know that regret weighs down the spirit.

So, with more than a little trepidation I pulled together my little life and flew over the Atlantic. I am teaching French highschoolers in a small town south of Paris for eight months. Everything is topsy turvey and I am still homeless, over two weeks in. When I return to the question, “What are you doing?” I hardly know what to say myself. However, I know God is here and I know with that, things will be alright.

*Eric Liddle – Chariots of Fire is about him, Olympic runner, missionary in China.

Don't Panic*

2010-09-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

So, the past few days have consisted of packing. If you have ever packed for a trip that includes a fair amount of ambiguity as to where you will be going and what you will be doing this can lead to an unpleasant sensation of panic. ie) you are going to a foreign country for 8-ish months (but even that is a round about guess) where you may need to look professional but also may travel during your time there, and have no idea where you are going to live. “Hmm... do you really need to bring this? What about that? Oh, now come on, seriously, why the heck are you packing THAT?” Goes the conversation in my head. All of this then leads down the dangerous path where we begin to weigh the loathsome baggage of material things on the freedom of our spirits... and then it gets really ugly. Linking something pragmatic (like a suitcase) to something abstract (criticizing materialism) leads to indecision and yep, you guessed it, panic.

So, there I was, vacillating over a faded blue towel outstretched in my hand. “Really, a towel. Kadyn, come on. You are bringing a towel? This is precious real estate, this here suitcase. Do you really want to fill this corner with a roll of terrycloth?” and then, “Have I really just spent the last 15 minutes thinking about a freakin' towel?!” I was about to despair and throw the proverbial towel in, when a synapse way back in my brain fired a fond and distant memory. (Note to the friendly reader: this entry is going to get weird from here on out, unless you have read one of the BEST books ever, “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy”. If you have read it, it will be even weirder, but better because at least you'll know what I am talking about).

A small voice, not unlike the volume of a small white mouse, reminded me what this book has to say about towels:

“A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

Alright. I'm taking the towel.

*quotation from The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Also, towels are supposedly quite expensive in France so bringing one for free from the States would be smart but that is besides the point of this here story.

Games are Afoot!

2010-09-21T09:26:00.000-07:00

Hi! Guess what? We're off again! Can you guess where to?

1) The comic Asterix is a comic series about the Gauls, the ancient people of this region.
2) The people here speak a language I really, really like.
3) This country struggles with knowing how to recognize its North African and Middle Eastern immigrants.
4) Ernest Hemingway was inspired to write The Sun Also Rises by what he saw here.

Dans les Champs de Flandres

2009-10-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

In Flanders Field.
A delightfully kind Belgian family with a penchant for chocolate mousse were my parents' neighbors when they lived in Abuja, Nigeria. Enthused that I would be studying in Belgium, they sent me to visit their parents who live in Ipres (French) aka Ypres (Flemish), near Flanders Field. Ipres lies in the Flemish region of Belgium. Even though it is just a few minutes away from French speaking Brussels, the residents speak surprisingly little French. In fact, they seem to take pride in this inability. It was ironic to have come from an ocean away and be correcting the French of someone who could drive 20 minutes to be immersed in native French. My pride was certainly flattered. Most Flemish seem to know English better than French.

Anyways, back to Flanders Field. Remember how veterans distribute paper poppies on Veteran's Day? That tradition comes from the crimson poppies that blossomed in the fields of Flanders after WWI, a poignant reminder of the blood bath that occurred there. After hearing Belgians recount stories of the wars that have devastated their country it is no wonder they are so against war in general. Belgium is a small country with no natural barriers, making them an easy target and convenient meeting ground for more potent armies to collide. Although today it is securely affluent, war still lies near the front lines in the Belgian memory.

Sandbags from WWI remain just as they were.

Dans le Metro

2009-10-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

In the Metro.
The beggars are there quite often. Today there is a woman, kneeling with a little toddler squirming on the mat beside her on the harsh concrete floor. She is of middle eastern descent and has a head covering folded over her forehead and around her temples, carefully concealing her dark hair. She wants money. That's why she's begging down here in the sour smelling metro. She knows just as well as the rest of us that we have money in our wallets and purses. She leans on one of the five pillars of Islam, hoping that one of us will stop and give alms. But no one is stopping. There is only the uninterrupted plod of shoes echoing down the underground corridor.

Slideshow

2009-10-26T15:32:00.000-07:00

Here's a slideshow of trips to Switzerland, France, the Netherlands, and the UK (in reverse chronological order). I struggled paring the shots down so there more than a few pics there. Oh well.

Quel Choix!

2009-09-24T15:35:00.000-07:00

What a choice! If only all of our decisions were as great as deciding to go to Martigny, Switzerland or Chamonix, France.

Deux Mots

2009-09-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Two Words: Mont Blanc.

Une Suite

2009-09-23T16:33:00.000-07:00

A Sequel. It is a beautiful morning and everyone else is inside studying their Kierkegaard and Brunner but I've different plans. The great iron latch creaks but reveals no secrets as I slip through the crack and outside, outside of the shelter and into the elements.

Out here it is harsh but far from uninviting. The winter air gives a deep, frigid embrace. Thick flakes tumble down from a heavy sky and gather on the slopes of the chalet roofs. They look like sleep on the heavy lidded eyes of the chalet windows. Inside, weathered armchairs like the elbows of professor's wool sweaters cradle books and the thoughts inspired therein.

But Oh! Outside is glorious! I am breaking the "rules" by coming out here during study time but I don't care. Sometimes the beauty of nature can tell you just as much about God as a theologian. I doubt Schaeffer would care. A fellow student, an Aussie, is shoveling snow* and is startled by my appearance. "Is there a road that way?" I inquire, heedless of his astonishment that I am out during study hours. "Uh, yes." He responds, pausing, leaning on his shovel. I step around him and to the road that quickly diminishes to a footpath. It dips around a corner to the right and rises into the protection of a forest draped in snow.

Soft footfalls. Solitary steps.

As the snowy trail eased into the trees I can envision the late Francis and Edith Schaeffer walking up ahead on such a day as this. Francis would be wearing wool knickers and a loden sweater. Edith would have her dark hair gathered up and a knapsack with slices of her famous brown bread inside. As flakes drift down through the tree limbs above in winter's silence I can almost hear echoes of their conversation from so long ago. I wonder what they talked about when they went out for walks. L'Abri finances and students? Their enfant terrible** of a son Franky? The order of God's will? They had but ordinary voices. Yet their words were extraordinary.

The path angles steeply up through the woods, over a snow camouflaged creek and ends at the gate of a cemetery. That trail is really like a book, you know. The opening line drew me away from our sleepy existence to the exterior, a harsh place but closer to reality. With each step the enjoyment of cold, alpine air was like learning something new. Each thought was so pure that it frosted my insides. The climax came as the path ascended and the conclusion laid solemnly with the tombstones. After a few minutes of contemplation at the graves' gates I shiver and continue walking up the mountain. This story is not over.

*At L'Abri students maintain the facility for half of the day and spend the other half in study. This not only helps keep the place running but also contributes to the practice of living in community. This Aussie was on his work shift - he had a legitimate reason for not studying!
** An enfant terrible is a "child whose inopportune remarks cause embarrassment or a person known for shocking remarks or outrageous behavior" (Merriam-Webster).

Une Balade Matinale à Huémoz

2009-09-22T21:39:00.000-07:00

A morning walk in Huémoz, Switzerland.

Les Rêves

2009-09-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

Dreams. It all began in that room. The one on the 3rd floor of Arend* with the tree outside the window that burst into magenta blossoms every spring. That day though, the one when it all began, the tree was but a twisted arm under a heavy load of snow.

The day was a dull one entrenched in the middle of winter and the thought of working on a research paper seemed too much to bear. So, I did what all college students do best: procrastinate. In doing so, my web browser stumbled across a most wondrous thing, catapulting me far from dorm rooms and grade point average scales to a world much more appealing. O, cry of rapture! A grin later, the discovery was put on my life goals list.

L'Abri, or The Shelter, as it is known in English, is a center of spiritual exploration begun by Francis and Edith Schaeffer that is housed in several chalets nestled in the Swiss Alps. Francis was a Christian theologian and philosopher and his wife was pretty amazing herself and one of my personal role models. They began L'Abri in order to address the questions of people they met who were searching for answers in the confusing modern world. They set out to give "honest answers to honest questions". The foundation of L'Abri is Christian and welcomes people from all faiths and traditions who seek ultimate truth. L'Abri is about living in community, individual study, group discussion, teaching, and stepping away for a while from societal distractions such as TV, iPods, cell phones, etc.. in order to hear what can be discerned from the quiet after the static is removed. Ultimately, L'Abri was founded in order for people to find out about God and then to know him at continually deeper levels.

Oh! To go! "Perhaps some day." I mused and went back to my paper.

Five years later... Here I am, standing in the dark after having just stumbled off of the bus on the edge of this teetering mountain road. Thick December snowflakes are the only source of light. But I know it is near. Just across the street and up that little driveway. L'Abri. Thank you, Lord!

*Arend was a dorm at my college.

"As Efficient as a ______ Train."

2009-09-22T00:15:00.000-07:00

1.) This place is also known as the Confederation Helvetique.
2.) Official languages: Romansch, Italian, French, German
3.) John Calvin, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Francis Schaeffer produced significant work while residing in this country.
4.) The Red Cross was created by a man from here.
5.) This country is famed for its international neutrality.

C'est Genial!

2009-09-22T00:07:00.000-07:00

It's awesome! This packet of kleenex demonstrates just one more reason why Europe is awesome. There are eight translations on this little package and English is at the near bottom (and it's UK English at that!)

Cantillon, C'est Bon

2009-09-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

Cantillon, It's Good. If you know anything about Belgians you know that Belgians love Beer. No, not just any beer, but beer with a capital B. That capital B means that they take it very seriously and it is so deep in the Belgian psyche that they probably teach their children that the alphabet begins with "A" for appétit (appetite) and "B" for bière (beer). I cannot tell you how many times I saw people swigging beers in the metro or in the streets like they were cans of soda. "Oh, that isn't real beer" locals would dismissively remark when I commented on this. This "pretend beer" or "training beer", what have you, has a 5.2% alcohol content. That's above the American standard. Imagine what their "real" beer is like then!

Now, before you visualize Belgian drinkers as drunken frat boys or paunchy middle aged men at a backyard barbecue, think again. The Belgian drinker is discerning and proud of their vast selection. Each is carefully crafted and each one looked after. Every variety has a specific glass in which it is served and if for some reason you have forgotten which curving silhouette belongs to which brew, the logo is emblazoned on the side. Many beer-ologists, professional and self-appointed, consider Belgian beer to be the best in the world. How many variations are there of this stuff? Great question. Belgium claims the title for having the most extensive variety of beers in the world. That is pretty impressive, but even more impressive when you consider that the place is a twelfth the size of the state of Montana and has been demolished over the years by various countries including Germany, France, and the Netherlands. Perhaps that's why they drink so much...

My aunt Tamara has come to visit me for a bit so we thought it would be fun to go to a Belgian brewery. The Cantillon Brewery is a family run brewery and makes a very unique variety. They craft lambic beers, which means that they don't use any added yeast. How's that, you say? The beer is fermented by placing bags of the grain up in a dank attic for a spell and letting microbes that are specific to the Bruxelles/Brussels area inundate it. It is called Brettanomyces Bruxellensis. The air of the entire building is full of an aroma that reminds one of baited breath. It is rich and full, cool, slightly sweet from the process of fermentation, and with each full inhale you know that microbes are moving, acting, and creating a new thing. As you can imagine, learning about all of that beer worked up a thirst in us and soon we found ourselves waiting at the tasting bar with our very own baited breath. Much satisfied, we congratulated ourselves on learning that "A" is for appétit, "B" is for bière, and decided to quit the premises for the next letter of the alphabet. "C" must be for chocolat. The Belgians have the best alphabet ever.

Me and Tamara at Hotel Metropol, a rather chic spot in Bruxelles.

Lundi, le 10 novembre, 2008

2009-09-21T20:47:00.000-07:00

Monday, November 10, 2008. Journal entry.

"Barack Obama a gagné. Barack Obama won. I went to bed late last night and rolled out of bed and down the stairs at five in the morning to find out the results of the elections on the TV. It was obvious that Obama would win. I wasn't overjoyed nor was I angry. America voted and America voted for him. It was simply the voice of present day America. We'll see. Obama's rhetoric was moving and I want to join the chorus, "Yes We Can!" and "Change!" Yet somewhere in the base of my skull a thought pulsated, "What is IT that we CAN change?" Do we all agree as to what that IT is? And what is the result of this change we are so eager for?

The moment of the declaration of an African-American president was nothing short of incredible. Oh, just fifty years ago... How thrilling it is to be able to witness such a thing! Just think, the moment when I heard that America elected a black president I was seated in a little room in a Belgian home on the Avenue du Chant d'Oiseau. It was late in the evening in America and early in the morning here. It is one of those moments that I will never forget.

Obama, we shall see. The proof is in the pudding. "

Translated from the French :)

A magazine stand featuring Barack Obama's image.

Paris Slide Show

2009-09-01T19:47:00.001-07:00

Here's a slide show of two trips to Paris. Thanks for watching!

In Bruges

2009-09-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

Ken: Coming up?
Ray: What's up there?
Ken: The view.
Ray: The view of what? The view of down here? I can see that down here.
Ken: Ray, you are about the worst tourist in the whole world.
Ray: Ken, I grew up in Dublin. I love Dublin. If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't.

There is a movie called In Bruges with Brendan Gleeson, Colin Farrell, and Ralph Fiennes. In the above excerpt Gleeson plays Ken and Farrell plays Ray. It's a foul, excessively violent, and all around inappropriate movie but it is politically incorrect and does have some interesting themes. I personally liked the reoccurring references to the painter Hieronymus Bosch and his phantasmal paintings but anyways... It is mostly a movie I could never recommend but man, it certainly shows the town of Bruges well. There's nothing like watching a scene where a character falls to his gruesome death and recalling, "That's where I ate a Belgian waffle." Appetizing.

The basic low down on Bruges is that it was a bustling commerce town back in its medieval heyday. Much to the dismay of its inhabitants, the main river dried up. Having lost its life source Bruges became isolated and forgotten. No ships to ferry goods in and out = no money. After many years of abandonment the city was rediscovered for the very thing that had become its demise - its inability to stay connected with the rest of the world. Today Bruges is a gem of Belgium, proffering one of the most intact specimens of a medieval town to the modern tourist. Everyone that goes to Bruges loves it, except for Ray.

Jardin des Tuileries

2009-09-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

Tuileries Gardens It is one of those nights. It's one of those beautiful Parisian evenings where the darkness sizzles with energy and amps up your senses, urging you to jump up and dash breathlessly through every backstreet, yet at the same time sit perfectly still to absorb every nerve tingling sensation.

Opting for the latter, this stone ledge seems just the place to savor everything. Perhaps it is a poor decision to sit alone under a dark tree in a even darker city park but I am still young enough to get away with naïveté (naivety). Every shape lies indigo on indigo; statues, park benches, stretches of grass. The light from the headlights of racing cars on the Rue de Rivoli flickers through the cast iron gate over my shoulder. A cool breeze filters through and makes the tree boughs restless.

What a night. The Louvre resides heavy and august on the left, all of its treasures weighing it down in mass, history, and significance. Just think, it is but a mere two minute walk to a treasure trove of chef d'oeuvres (masterpieces)! It is jam packed with masterpieces; works of art that have endured the test of time and reveal a timeless truth.

A timeless truth. A timeless truth?

I lift my chin and look all around. Above, the light from a tall rectangular window pierces through the silhouettes of two black trees. It startles the darkness.

A timeless truth? Almost without realizing it I have caught one. One like passing your hand through a beam of yellow light from a distant window on a dark, dark night. It is not something I will share with you, for I think it is really only meant for me. The realization is saddening but although painful it is very much worth the exchange. Don't get carried away, it is nothing so high as to do with the spiritual or any such thing. It is just a simple but influential truth.

The night is still beautiful. Time to stand, cross the street and walk back towards the apartment. I think I'll sleep well tonight.

My Kind of Math

2009-08-25T22:28:00.000-07:00

Park + Raspberry tartlette = one happy girl!

Paris, Je T'Aime

2009-08-25T21:08:00.001-07:00

Paris is hilarious. Paris is sophisticated and beautiful yet also so brusque and filthy. "I love Paris but not the Parisians" is a widely shared opinion.* Visitors who have had a good experience here would call the nation a paradox, those who've been burned by the infamous Gallic shrug**, that je ne sais quoi***, that expression of,"You're S.O.L. and I couldn't care less" would call it plain old hypocrisy.

However you want to slice your cheese you have to admit that this place is intriguing. Paris is chic yet tacky, modern and yet positively medieval in other aspects. You may have access to free education but that doesn't mean that your plumbing at home works. Attempting to be a vegetarian here would be tough. Being an animal rights activist would be even tougher considering that the nation's gourmet darling is foie gras (fat liver, literally), a product of force fed geese and ducks. (Yep, it tastes almost as good as it sounds.) Feminism? Well, if you feel up to overhauling the entire French language with its feminine, masculine, and non-gender words, go for it. Be forewarned however. The French have an entire academie of green coated intellectuals whose life's pursuit is to preserve the purity of the French language. Not only that, the members of the Academie Francaise are called "immortals". No joke.

France prides itself in its avant garde approach to new ideas and preens at the thought that the likes of Jean Paul Sartre and Picasso flourished here. However, the nation has deep race issues, especially towards North Africans. I have had lovely conversations with locals and I have been repulsed by creeps. Yes, it is part of human nature and city life, but in this case, it is Parisian style.

One moment you are thanking your lucky stars that you are in this City of Light, this pinnacle of civilization called Paris. The next, you have been hashed to pieces and feel worse than crotte (dog poop) on the sidewalk. Paris, I love you but you can sure be a pain in the cul.

*Don't worry. I've liked most of the Parisians I've met.
** The Gallic shrug will never exit your memory once you have witnessed it first hand. I don't know how they are able to shrug their shoulders up to their earlobes and simultaneously cock their head to one side and frown deeply. It must be in their DNA, probably the sequence right next to the one that keeps French women from getting fat.
*** Je ne sais quoi takes too long to explain in just a couple of words. It literally means "I don't know what" but in this circumstance it means "that extra something that you can't describe or quite put your finger on". It is often used to describe something charming, like perhaps a woman's mystery. In this case I am using it sarcastically. Who me? Sarcastic? Never.

Une de Mes Choses Preferees

2009-08-09T13:00:00.001-07:00

(One of my favorite things) Oh wow! Why didn't anyone tell me how good the "Sound of Music" is? It was by sheer luck that I stumbled across it one night. I was tired but wanted to unwind before I conked out. "The Sound of Music?" I frowned as I perused the shelves at my host family's house. The last time I have watched that was... while I was still under four feet. Well, pourquoi pas (why not). Into the DVD player it went and I nestled in for a brainless wonder.

But Hello! The opening footage of the mountains is enough to get anyone's heart soaring and by the closing credits I longed to be Austrian and frolick around cooing "Eidelweiss".

My dad has indoctrinated me against musicals, this one in particular over the course of my upbringing by singing in a spooky tenor, "The hi-lls! Are al-iii-ve! (Run for your lives!)" This, as you may surmise, made it difficult for me to take this musical seriously.

Par hazard (by chance) this jewel of a film has been rediscovered with new eyes. Gorgeous scenery, dancing, pretty dresses, love intrigue and adventure. What more could a girl want? "I simply remember my favorite things..."

Au Revoir Maman!

2009-08-09T12:51:00.001-07:00

Goodbye Mom!

Corrie Ten Boom

2009-08-09T12:45:00.001-07:00

The Ten Boom's living room is still much like it was when Corrie lived there.
Today we went to see Corrie Ten Boom's house in Haarlem, Netherlands. She was an unassuming woman who never married and lived with her father who was a watchmaker. She saved the lives of countless Jews during the Nazi occupation and changed the lives of even more who have heard her story since. She and her family were hurled into concentration camps where the majority of them died. Nazi officers said to her 84yr old father, "Come, you are an old man and you should spend your last days in peace at home. Simply tell us that you will no longer help the Jews and we will let you go free." He refused, asserting, "It would be an honor to give my life for God's ancient people." He survived only 10 days in prison. Corrie survived the Ravensbruck concentration camp and began a world wide ministry. Despite the depravity she was a witness and victim to she embraced forgiveness saying, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." You should look up who she was. I could never begin to convey Corrie and what God did through her in any blog I write.

http://www.corrietenboom.com/history.htm

Backpacking and Such

2009-08-09T12:09:00.001-07:00

Who ever would have guessed I would get to "backpack" Europe with my mom? Well, what do you know! There we were, packs on, wandering through an unfamiliar neighborhood in Haarlem (Netherlands) at night armed only with the word "apotheek" (pharmacy) when what we wanted to find was our hostel. Of all the words I could have retained of the Dutch language, "apotheek" was the only word that stuck. As for my mother, the words that came to mind were from high school Spanish. Que pasa? Brilliant.

However, that is just one of the many joys of exploring. You get plopped down in the middle of a new situation and you just have to deal. To convey our situation in the most apt of terms we were absolutely and utterly lost. No map, no familiarity, and as you already know, no language skills. So, we did what many travelers have done before us. We kept our feet moving and hoped that we would find someone, anyone who spoke our language.

This may be unnerving, even frightening, but in all actuality it is quite liberating. You reach that crux moment where you realize that you have no control over the situation. Once there you are able to use your eyes to perceive what you normally dismiss as irrelevant because it isn't part of your Plan. You begin to appreciate the stepped silhouettes of brick houses against an indigo night sky. It makes you think about architecture. Windows illuminate the darkness with vignettes of dutch evening life. This makes you think about cultures. You cross a quiet street punctuated by streams of light from evenly spaced lamp posts. Thus you consider existence. A subtle breeze rustles trees in the darkness. You ponder the unseen. The sound of footsteps, of yours and others, makes you think about souls. You get perspective.

That is the beauty of the voyage - you go beyond the controllable. The person who thinks that they can control what befalls them is foolish and well, bor-ing. The process of exploration delivers what you really need: the ability to consider what you may not take time to consider when you are in your own territory.

After a while things do get sorted out. A lady spotted us vagabonds and gave us directions in quasi-english on how to locate our hostel. We were way on the wrong side of town but oh well. We had a lovely walk and appreciated our bunks more by the time we finally fell into them than we would have had we taken the direct route. Perhaps that is why they call it "exploring" rather than "attaining".

London Diversion

2009-08-09T11:42:00.000-07:00

Very Righteous

2009-08-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

Ruthie (Friend from Nigeria who lives in Ireland and S. Africa now), Sophie (Friend from Nigeria who is a Dr. in this country), and my mom sitting in Bishop's chairs.

Ca M'Enerve

2009-07-20T20:18:00.001-07:00

That bugs/annoys me. Somehow the Jane Austen entry hopped in the queue before the entry about my mom coming to visit and also the Hop Skip Jump entry. Just as wiley as that English doorman! So, the Jane Austen entry is supposed to go HERE, where this entry sits. Sorry for the mix up.

A Hop, a Skip, and a Jump

2009-06-06T10:02:00.000-07:00

Mom and I are off to visit a friend of hers named Sophie that we knew from when we lived in Nigeria. Where are we going?

1. Get your "wellies", we may have rain.
2. Gordon Brown is the leader of the Labour Party and the Prime Minister.
3. The flag is also known as the Union Jack.
4. King Arthur, Lady Guenevere, Sir Lancelot and their ilk.

It's All in the Family.

2009-06-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

My mom is coming to visit for a few weeks. Here we go!

Mom with her pet't dej' (breakfast)

Jane Austen

2009-06-06T09:26:00.000-07:00

There are plenty of reasons to like Jane Austen. She and her works are witty and sharp, mature and insightful. She revealed peoples foibles to remind us of how we ought to love each other in our humanity. Her lack of pretension and wealth of vitality make us glad that we can be friends with her, even if it is only through her novels. However, regardless of how many times we read her writing or research her, she remains a delightful mystery.

It was due to these qualities and long lasting "friendship" that I was more than glad to stop by the Jane Austen house in Bath, England. Unfortunately, the house was just full of silly knick knacks and overpriced books. Bored, we decided to find amusement elsewhere. Our greatest diversion ended up sprouting from the least likely of sources: the door man.

Rotund in his waistcoat and breeches, he was the most mild mannered of gentlemen as he held the door open for us and welcomed us with a notable self-effacing Colin Firth-ness. However, as we left the premises he chucked the Colin Firth/Mr Darcy act like yesterday's fish and chips and transformed into something more Monty Python-esque. His antics started with subtlety and quickly went south, jumping around and being downright silly. I tried to picture him in one of Jane's carefully wrought novels but could not seem to place him. At all. He was like an Anglosaxon mime with the most ingenius facial expressions. Before we knew it we were all in stitches and were rolling down the boulevard like Elizabeth Bennett's little sisters on the loose. Jane, who knows what you would have made of this man but we found him to be quite enjoyable. Quite enjoyable indeed.

Lui

2009-01-28T14:33:00.000-08:00

Him. Today we went up all those steps. The creaking boards were so narrow and steep that I was forced to walk sideways, knees knocking. A barren gloom rendered the rooms a desperate space as though to remind us that there was no place for words up here in the Annex.

It has been a long time since I read her diary and to be honest, much of it has been forgotten. One thing that was clear, even then, Anne Frank was much more insightful and mature at thirteen than many of us so called adults. At thirteen my diary was filled with descriptions of cute boys and favorite songs. Her father desired so dearly that she might have such a childhood but it wasn't to be. What would a father do in order to protect? What would he endure in the hope to give his child a chance to live?

Otto Frank. What about him? First of all, he put his family into hiding. Then they were caught, then separated, then killed. All of them except for him, who did the unimaginable and survived Auschwitz. There was a haunting photo of him in the house that is now a museum. He wore a somber suit over his tall frame with resolution in his hands and sadness in his eyes. A sharply cut profile accentuated his pain and every angle spoke of dark suffering beyond description. He did everything within his power to protect his family. He must have pleaded God for a miracle a million times. He lost everything and everyone he cared about save for his own life. Did he find it as cruel irony? Did he shake his fist at God, crying out for justice or an equal grace? Even if he finally came to terms with what happened to his family and his people, what did he say when he saw that racism, hate crimes, genocide, and even Nazism still remained? It must be so heavy for a Father. I could think of no answers for him and I wanted to weep.

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Et

2009-01-28T14:14:00.000-08:00

And. Where to now?

1. You can't get a cup of joe in the coffeeshops here but you can get a bowl of mary jane.
2. They have lots and lots and lots of bicycles here.
3. This is a very politically and socially liberal country.
4. Like gouda? Like tulips? Come here.