She is curled up, warm, in her apartment. She is listening to the songs of Sufjan Stevens because they are great and they remind her of home. And she is reading On the Road. The heat has just turned on, the apartment has that lovely smell of fall melting into winter – old and dusty. But wonderful.
She doesn’t understand why she has been drawn into this sudden swing of Americana sentimentality –but she feels a little overwhelmed by it. Perhaps it is all the negative things she has to say about her country at the moment and her conscious has rebuked her into a small search for America, here, in France.
She wants to be like Dean Moriarty...just a little bit.
She made her roommate read Metamorphosis. She’s not quite sure why.
Last Saturday she saw an elephant. The Isle de Nantes boasts a small macabre world inspired by Jules Verne of merry-go-rounds and a four story robotic elephant that trots around the island spraying annoyed tourists with their cameras and delighted screaming children. It’s a dark juxtaposition of creatures out of an adult’s nightmare transformed into attractions for the young.
She went for a walk in the rain yesterday- just to see the city shine and glow. She saw a small reunion of several Russian men under a small canapé, shouting and singing songs of the old country.
She saw a man holding a mouse out for children to come and pet.
She saw a movie about a famous French criminal turned maniacally violent by his military service in the Algerian war.
She planted a basil plant on her window sill. It’s cold, but she hopes it will grow.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
teenage dramas and monotones
It was four in the morning and she couldn’t sleep and was listening to some great new music. The week had gone really well thus far – she had learned a lot from her first full days of classes at both the high school and the middle school. Students, for the most part, were great. Working with them in groups of three or four, she learned that they represented a remarkable range of ability levels…some couldn’t form a complete complex sentence and some spoke almost fluently. It was a great variety – peppered with many different interests- from physics to literature, to World Wide Wrestling, to American teenage shows, to poems by Keats. The students were kind and courteous, but for the most part very uncomfortable with an informal relationship with their instructor. Their lives are run on stress and striving to achieve entrance into the right university. She learned some students have officially graduated and choose to stay on one or two more years to prepare their resumes for university applications…she learned just how incredibly driven and remarkably disciplined and talented these young people are – She just wondered how much fun high school was for them. There was still the air of adolescent judgment, and cliquish relationships, but without any real feeling of camaraderie. None of the monumental and wonderful moments of high school in the states were present– no pep rallies, no graduation ceremony, no all-nighter video projects, no prom, no homecoming, no wacky nerdy dress day.
And she learned they were all incredibly curious…about the elections in America (most every French person supports, without a doubt, Obama), about what Americans thought of Sarkozy (Sarkozy who….), how life was there, were any of the stereotypes…americans are all fat and stupid, they drive big cars, and everyone owns a gun, and live in a dangerous world, ….true?
She learned that the steps in her building were made in 1606.
And she learned a few things from sam - who introduced two new French figures into her life – Jacques Brel – an amazing French singer from years ago, who’s music is plain and pure passion – about dirty life and love..
http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=T6rvMZnWKZc,
and Michel Coluche – (perhaps an early predecessor of Stephen Colbert )– a completely irreverent French comedian who ran for president in 1981 – but dropped out of the race because the polls showed him far in the lead (he died mysteriously five years later – in what many consider a government conspiracy).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coluche - lists some of his wonderful words of wisdom about everything from government to the poor to the church to the ignorant to the former USSR.
She learned that the French manage to envelope everything –from the little minute tasks of life to the political revolutions of an entire nation – in art. Everything is done with a conscious of beauty, with tenderness- and everything painted a pretty picture. At five o’clock streets filled with old couples walking arm and arm, businessmen carrying baguettes, kids picking up pastries, pigeons crowding the steps of churches, even the monotonous and everyday was done purposefully and was elegant.
That even government communication was a thing of poetry.
she learned that the British government read verses on the radio to communicate with the French resistance during world war II. That the first phrase of this poem - chanson d'automne - told allies that the Americans were landing in France soon.
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure
Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Translated – something like this…
The sobbing calls/from the fall's/ fiddles' moan/through my breast/languidest/monodrone.
It just seemed a little ironic to her-that the attention to taking life slowly and deliberately, of savoring each meal, each walk, each cup of coffee, each page of the paper - the enjoyment factor - was not completely evident in high school or education in France; the time that many Americans believe is one of the most lively, fun, enjoyable periods of their lives is, here, missing something significant.
And she learned they were all incredibly curious…about the elections in America (most every French person supports, without a doubt, Obama), about what Americans thought of Sarkozy (Sarkozy who….), how life was there, were any of the stereotypes…americans are all fat and stupid, they drive big cars, and everyone owns a gun, and live in a dangerous world, ….true?
She learned that the steps in her building were made in 1606.
And she learned a few things from sam - who introduced two new French figures into her life – Jacques Brel – an amazing French singer from years ago, who’s music is plain and pure passion – about dirty life and love..
http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=T6rvMZnWKZc,
and Michel Coluche – (perhaps an early predecessor of Stephen Colbert )– a completely irreverent French comedian who ran for president in 1981 – but dropped out of the race because the polls showed him far in the lead (he died mysteriously five years later – in what many consider a government conspiracy).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coluche - lists some of his wonderful words of wisdom about everything from government to the poor to the church to the ignorant to the former USSR.
She learned that the French manage to envelope everything –from the little minute tasks of life to the political revolutions of an entire nation – in art. Everything is done with a conscious of beauty, with tenderness- and everything painted a pretty picture. At five o’clock streets filled with old couples walking arm and arm, businessmen carrying baguettes, kids picking up pastries, pigeons crowding the steps of churches, even the monotonous and everyday was done purposefully and was elegant.
That even government communication was a thing of poetry.
she learned that the British government read verses on the radio to communicate with the French resistance during world war II. That the first phrase of this poem - chanson d'automne - told allies that the Americans were landing in France soon.
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure
Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Translated – something like this…
The sobbing calls/from the fall's/ fiddles' moan/through my breast/languidest/monodrone.
It just seemed a little ironic to her-that the attention to taking life slowly and deliberately, of savoring each meal, each walk, each cup of coffee, each page of the paper - the enjoyment factor - was not completely evident in high school or education in France; the time that many Americans believe is one of the most lively, fun, enjoyable periods of their lives is, here, missing something significant.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
And Now for Something Completely Different
Just an aside...if for some terrible reason Obama loses and the McCain/Palin monster takes over...please sign up here to move to France!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Smoke and Rabbits
She smelled like smoke and she was eating rabbit. Her roommate Sam is friendly and a great host. He is the French cliché – he smokes all the time, he sells fancy cheese and wine to shops all along the coast and is planning to do the same in NYC next year, he doesn’t speak much English, he listens to old American hip hop and great French singers from the 60’s, he wears cool hats,he smokes continously, he paints, and he cooks – three nights ago it was Tartiflette- a traditional French meal of the mountains…onions, potatoes, cream, and some very good and very smelly cheese, and last night it was plat mijote du lapin – a special marinated rabbit dish. Dinners are late, with French pop idol in the background and some fairly interesting snippets of conversation – whatever she could muster with her French - about everything from the family’s tradition of dining together, to abortion rights in France, to favorite political activists.
This morning she forced herself out of bed early, which is difficult to do with no natural light in the room, and puttered around until early afternoon. Layering up for the chilly temperature outside, she grabbed a scarf and off - following cobblestone alleyways until she reached the river. Across a bridge dodging traffic that never ever obeys any city signs,she reached the isle de nantes- the recovering industrial section of the town. A large yellow crane still stands as testament to the once thriving ship-building industry that powered Nantes, but now wharfs and equipment are a nostalgic attraction. The city was celebrating the christening of a new boat - a huge creation - built for speed and power (in some foreign place) and completely out of place in a village where everything moved at its own slow pace and where industry was pretty much nonexistant. Still it was here, for some reason, and small windsurfers and skippers skirted around the massive sailboat floating flags that proclaimed "I'm Free" in french and english.
Across the bridge back over to town where on her two hour walk she encountered - a small street band comprised of a banjo, an accordion, a guitar, and a full size base, a flour-covered mime, a petting zoo outside of a cathedral, a traditional french marching band and dance group in the town square, a hepatitis c awareness event that released hundreds of colored balloons into the sky, and the tail end of a fashion show (its backdrop a cheap and bright carousel).
So much stimulation in such a small space- it was incredible- pockets of life and culture trying to break open into public space wherever. Hundreds of people swarmed around gazing at attraction after attraction.
She wonders if this is a normal Saturday and she is exhausted but smiling.
This morning she forced herself out of bed early, which is difficult to do with no natural light in the room, and puttered around until early afternoon. Layering up for the chilly temperature outside, she grabbed a scarf and off - following cobblestone alleyways until she reached the river. Across a bridge dodging traffic that never ever obeys any city signs,she reached the isle de nantes- the recovering industrial section of the town. A large yellow crane still stands as testament to the once thriving ship-building industry that powered Nantes, but now wharfs and equipment are a nostalgic attraction. The city was celebrating the christening of a new boat - a huge creation - built for speed and power (in some foreign place) and completely out of place in a village where everything moved at its own slow pace and where industry was pretty much nonexistant. Still it was here, for some reason, and small windsurfers and skippers skirted around the massive sailboat floating flags that proclaimed "I'm Free" in french and english.
Across the bridge back over to town where on her two hour walk she encountered - a small street band comprised of a banjo, an accordion, a guitar, and a full size base, a flour-covered mime, a petting zoo outside of a cathedral, a traditional french marching band and dance group in the town square, a hepatitis c awareness event that released hundreds of colored balloons into the sky, and the tail end of a fashion show (its backdrop a cheap and bright carousel).
So much stimulation in such a small space- it was incredible- pockets of life and culture trying to break open into public space wherever. Hundreds of people swarmed around gazing at attraction after attraction.
She wonders if this is a normal Saturday and she is exhausted but smiling.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Fire breathers, violinists, and mountaineers
She almost fell asleep listening to the faint sound of a choir in the empty St. Nicholas Cathedral. She just let her mind be still and let the building, and the color and the light, and the smell of incense just pass right through her. The sound of traffic outside was a constant reminder of reality –but she savored a few more minutes of being in this magnificent building that was much more important than she could ever know. After being in this city for the past week she had realized something - that people are the same. Not a person - persons are different, very different from one another, but people are the same. This town has the rich women in high heels who struggle to cross cobbled stone streets, it has the smart and cool students who are themselves and believe in good things, it has different people who talk to themselves as they stumble along, it has drunks who struggle in vain to enter restaurants, it has old ladies who go and sit inside churches - eyes closed in prayer for future generations, it has the poor who beg on the corner showing off missing limbs, it has eccentrics who feed birds from their own mouths, it has maniacal men who blow fire in the middle of crowded bar streets, it has beautiful old men who sit beside shopping centers with their violins playing somewhere over the rainbow, it has the twenty-something nomads who sleep on doorsteps with their dogs. People had warned, had joked, that you must be prepared for the coldness of the French, the impolite, stuck up attitude of their culture. She had not seen it anywhere. She had met many different persons- who all held a unique place on the spectrum; but the people here were the people of her hometown and her college town and other places across the world (sans or variations of firebreathers and birdfeeders). And that was very comforting. That though it looked very new – it wasn’t, not really.
And she had been passing the rainy nights reading – this time –three cups of tea. About a mountaineer who commits his life to building schools in Pakistan, a genuinely amazing person who leaves his everything, his life of climbing and exploring for a single idea and single passion and who changes everything for small pockets of people. And …well, reading that begged the question, being here, living here, given this opportunity.........what is the purpose of an adventure and what was the purpose of this one?
And she had been passing the rainy nights reading – this time –three cups of tea. About a mountaineer who commits his life to building schools in Pakistan, a genuinely amazing person who leaves his everything, his life of climbing and exploring for a single idea and single passion and who changes everything for small pockets of people. And …well, reading that begged the question, being here, living here, given this opportunity.........what is the purpose of an adventure and what was the purpose of this one?
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