secret details

It is the love in the detail that makes a place sincere and historic. Walking around the town for the past few days she finally had time to turn her eyes slightly upward and notice the detail. The facades of the buildings were beautiful – wrought iron balconies, window boxes overflowing with small red flowers, tall black intricate lamp posts leaving pools of glowing light – Of course the cathedrals and chateaus were awe-inspiring but the slight statue of the Virgin tucked into the wall of a small apartment building on the third floor, if you could take the time to see it, and take the time to watch it, was equally as beautiful. Nantes is a town of secret art and she was having so much fun wandering the streets on the hunt for the large lion faces carved into the walkways outside restaurants, or the bodies of saints or the macabre faces of the green men that peppered parking lots, hallways, walkways, always hidden from plain sight and only visible to those who knew they were there or were of the mind to look for them and appreciate them. On the way out to have a coffee with friends or off to work or to the store they caught you by surprise if you were lucky and turned your day around. Running into a masterpiece during a mundane errand – that was the most magical part.
She had found an apartment and spent the past few days lugging her luggage across the cobblestone streets – through the fair and the chateau and past the cathedral, down the street from the best bakery in town and around the corner from the art store (where students queued constantly to prep for classes) - down a shadowy alleyway right in the middle of town – through a big red door and up two flights of ancient stone steps - her apartment – small and perfect – genuine French colocataire (roommate) artist and everything. Dull stucco walls were covered with colored scarves, an old dj turntable acted as a bookshelf, paints and brushes out, clothes hung up, Obama put on the wall.

la grande roue

Imagine looking at the world through a pop-up book. Looking down at an aerial view of something a little surreal and fictional, an image of something else – soft and vividly colored, stretching farther and farther and farther. Her day ended looking at that picture. Swaying and terrified atop la grande roue – the great wheel – the centre of the cheap gaudy fair that had juxtaposed itself on the lawn of the old chateau - she took in a panorama of her city. There were the rows of cottages inhabited by duddy old men and very young couples and some of the teachers she had met earlier-the young ones especially sweet and kind and eager to speak English or Spanish or Italian or anything but French. The chateau and cathedral of course directly below, lit up just enough that their outlines glowed against the sky. The restaurants, bars, cafes, shops, cobblestoned streets – those same streets, she learned while precariously hanging above the world, that were dismantled by students during the revolution to provide trajectories to counter police attacks– the man on the corner breathing fire and asking for money, the man on the corner playing the guitar in a top hat asking for money, and the man on the corner without arms asking for money. And she saw the school and her room (a mess of clothes and books and a baguette she had for dinner) where she had accidentally locked herself in for twenty or so minutes until she was rescued by her roommate, and the night guard watching his news, reading his paper, and preparing himself to draw her into another long and delightful conversation about poverty in China, and his stamp collection, and the problems of today’s generation, and the oncoming world war three, and a rare five euro coin he found which is worth a lot but which doesn’t make him rich, and the beautiful chateaus of France and how France had castles long before England and much more that she didn’t fully understand. And even though she is now in her bed, off the wheel down on earth it still feels like she is looking at an image, something mysterious and a bit unreal and dreamy.

doors and windows

I want to keep my memories in a safe place. This is written with the assumption that few will read it. It is a small little window into my small little world where I can keep my small little thoughts and my grand schemes and the things I see…and so it goes. And so it goes.

She sobbed kissing her mother goodbye for the last time, fixing solidly the faces of her grandparents as they spoke their final words at the Chilli’s at the airport over soppy quesadillas. Onto the AirIndia 747 which unsurprisingly smelled of Indian food. She spoke to a nice Taiwanese Man from Ohio who worked on the computers for a pastry company who looked like he had no interest whatsoever in pastries who was visiting Paris for a week of vacation. Her movie screen didn’t work. She took one large anti-anxiety pill and passed out in a knotted position.

She awoke every hour or so of the six hour flight and began reading The Perks of being a Wallflower which isn’t necessarily about the great aspects of being a wallflower; It is about choosing between participation and observation. It is the story of a boy who survives high school (and the author doesn’t belittle the drama of teenage angst but makes it real and depressing and serious) and learns about how to interact in a truthful way with the people he loves. Which is really hard to do. She hadn’t quite finished it yet-but she knows what she is going to get out of this book. She needs to choose between participating and observing, she needs to put the camera down and step into the image.

A landing at Charles de Gaulle followed by several tram rides and many many stairs which were a major inconvenience for her very heavy suitcase – 31 kilos of the necessities of life. She even managed to knock a few large men over trying to balance all her luggage. Evil glares. Emerging out of the Jaures station she caught her breath – cursed the French for their lack of handicap accessibility. And the first thing she saw – the first thing she tragically saw- was a McDonalds. Fantastic. After wandering around a busy intersection for half an hour she finally found her hostel – The Peace and Love Hostel – (no comment). A Johnny Depp character from New York greeted her, room key, rules and regulations, up one floor to your right. Again fighting with the suitcase into the room and out again.

She hopped a tram to the center of the city – into Paris- the real Paris- the history and the art and the romance. And there was Notre Dame – no fanfare no big signs – just sitting there among the streets. Dark and a towering gray that blended into the murky sky overhead. Outside it was dark and dull – inside the light glowed everywhere. Candles. Insence. Twenty or so separate chapels dedicated to an assortment of saints each depicting a different story with a different medium of art- sculpture, mosaic, painting, furniture, engravings, etc. And even though clouds created an impermeable sky, the rose windows shown as if the sun was hiding right behind them. But all eyes were drawn to the middle of the cathedral. Everything merged to one point where Christ lay in Mary’s arms. And you know when artists and authors talk about things being beautifully sad – this statue, somehow, held all the sadness in the world, and it was very beautiful.

Outside again, old men fed crumbs to the pigeons that created rings of crap around the monument. She took a table at a café across the street. Had a chocolate crepe and a coffee. And she felt like the world slowed a little and she was stretched thin and was infinite for a moment and for some reason that made her feel very lonely.

Back to the hostel. It was cold. She read some more. Sent out some emails. Slept. Woke up to the sounds of horrible American pop music playing in the bar downstairs. Slept some more. Woke again to the most dreaded sound a hostel dweller can hear- the gags of a roommate as he prepares himself to void all the alcohol he has just consumed. Truly thank God…he made it to the bathroom.

She woke in the morning, elbowed her way to the bathroom, pulled the suitcase down the spiral staircase. And off again to the tram. To another tram. To the Gare Montparrasse where sitting on the floor waiting for her train she read some more of her book and watched the people merging and coming apart again. Met some fellow assistants on the train. They chatted about normal stuff. She fell asleep which was really a shame because the scenery seemed to get prettier as they progressed. In few moments of consciousness she caught farms, cows, yellow corn stalks, train tracks.

At the station she was picked up by a very nice man with a ridiculously wonderful mustache. The kind you can only find on old British men who smoke cigars and love literature and have big comfy green chairs in their personal libraries. He took her to the school and gave her a quick tour. Le Lycee Clemenceau is really a small castle. Over 200 years old. It is intricate and quite beautiful with several open foyers and small gardens. Down a block is a castle – really drawbridge and everything, further down the way there is a giant and beautiful stone cathedral, a garden, and all the small winding cobblestone streets filled with all the small stores and restaurants and bars and cafes that you would expect of a French space.

She met another assistant whom she is rooming with at the Lycee until they each find their own place. She is an incredibly sweet girl and they wandered the streets for awhile, having a quick dinner and coffee with some French friends the girl knew. Back to the school. An hour long conversation with the night guard about American politics, the economy, the iron man race, his stamp collection, the color of our eyes, finding a home, Texas and California, the Grand Canyon – and it is late and her French is not that good so she can’t remember much more. And now she is ready for bed, and she thinks she is ready for all this and she thinks she is happy about all this. And she misses you very much.