On the holiday

It’s political holiday season again in Illinois….4,000 miles away. Lincoln’s Birthday that is. Apparently, 2009 is the bicentennial of his magnificent and gracious birth. Illinois has a tradition of being proud, even for its adopted son’s, such as Lincoln, and even Obama.

This Monday started off a little rough, with technical problems on the subway making my trip take double the time. After I arrived, I found my class was canceled. Later in the afternoon was my trip to the Orsay for the opening of an exhibition of Leon Gimpel’s work. He was an early photographer that helped invent photo coloring in pictures.

His work was stunning. Many of his images deal with new technologies of the time, like early airplanes and blimps. One that caught my eye was of the yellow blimp, high in the clear blue sky with lots of sun showing off the magnificence of the technology. Other works included capturing Parisian floods, World War I, and the old electric signs of department stores and the Eiffel Tower. His work was impressive, more so in my opinion than the other exhibit that is debuting at the same time.

After leaving the museum and walking along the Seine, I learned some terrible news from Liam on the phone. I knew that there was a terrible shooting in the Chicago area last week, in which five women at a Lane Bryant women’s clothing store were rounded up by a man and shot in the back room. Also, there was a news story about Fred Phelps, the Westboro Baptist Church racist who protests the funerals of soldiers along with funerals of school shooting victims and such. They use the mantra that because the United States “loves fags,” that our society will be flaming all the way down to hell (ironic that they say flaming too?). For this group, no one outside their compound could be trusted.

So one of the victim’s was my friend Mary’s cousin. She had gone to high school in Oak Forest, Illinois along with them, knew them, was friends with them. She was family of people I care about deeply. She was taken to the back room of chain women’s clothing store and murdered in cold blood. Then to hear that it was her funeral that Fred Phelps protested not only dumb struck me as I was sitting on the edge of a stone railing along the Seine holding my small red phone, it made me unsteady. I leaned back but had to grab myself as I almost slid off the railing into the river. Sheer surprise guilted my conscious that Chicago was a freezing pond of snow and debilitating temperatures and I was schmoozing along boulevards, beautiful skies while buying expensive things.

And all I can keep thinking about is guilt and Lincoln. I was searching for a quote to summarize the latter feelings of my day…and I found this: “In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares.”
– Abraham Lincoln, December 23, 1862.

Lincoln, once again, I love you.

“Beaujoulais is best enjoyed by the younger generation.”

Yesterday was my first “real” day trip that I’ve taken since settling in Paris. My roommate, Jose, and I decided that it was an appropriate time to get out of town, since restlessness has started to kick in a bit, and his girlfriend is also out of town.

So, he picked Dijon, and I said yes. That was Thursday, and the next day we went to the SNCF ticket office in Montmartre and bought tickets. We would use Dijon as a launching point for going to a smaller town, Beaune, so we could do some wine tasting of the fine Burgundian vins.

We woke up early for the 8:30 train from Gare de Lyon. The scenery as the TGV twisted among the countryside and through small hills was magnificent. The landscape changed as we went and became a bit hillier, and finally we arrived in Dijon…a smaller city that once was a capital of France (the Burgundian dukes challenged the authority of the king a few times). To put it loosely, the central old city is magnificent in its large array of old cathedrals, palaces, and marketspace. There were even handy little triangles with owls (?) implanted in many of the sidewalks so that you could easily find another scenic spot within the city. We decided to eat some pastries from a small pastry shop, which proved to be better and cheaper than most I’ve seen in Paris. We found a free museum in the old palace, which showcased room after room of the duke’s former collection of paintings. The best part was that it was all free. It seemed even like a more impressive collection than that of Versailles, since this one was so intact.

Since we had some time to kill, we bought sandwhiches and headed to the garden. Later we caught our train to Beaune, a small city perched along the Cote de Nuit hills which are famous for their wines. Dijon, and for that matter most of Burgundy, are still pretty wealthy not only due to their old treasures, but because their wine and mustard are so famous (and the wine brings in lots of money). Beaune, population 25,000, has a very upper-middle class atmosphere, with large SUV’s and foriegn imports parked in front of tidy cafes. Though it is richer than many towns I have seen in France, it’s old beauty didn’t seemed to be spoiled by large tour groups, hotels, or overbearing restaurants. Actually, most of the people we saw were other people from the morning train who had the same idea as us.

After walking around a bit and snapping pictures, we went to the Marche au Vins, a wine-tasting spot where you could sample 15 wines for 10 euros. Some of them were pretty good, especially the 1998 Beaune appellation bottle which I purchased. It was a great experience as a first wine-tasting event. At the end, I told one of the sommeliers that I enjoyed Beajoulais and thought my wine which I purchased was fruity like it. His response was something like how Beajoulais was only good for the younger generation and we had a short arguement about the quality of that wine.

We had some drinks at a cafe afterwards, and then attempted to find the restaurant we had read about. After sitting there for almost 40 minutes, we decided to leave so that we didn’t miss our train back to Dijon. Back there, we had some pizza for dinner, since I would rather have a cheaper meal since I spent more on wine.

In general, Bourgoune/Burgundy is a rather special place, where there might be more tourists in some parts and almost none in others. The wine quality is envied around the world, and for good reason…I don’t know if I’ve had better in France, and in Burgundy, during my life. Aka, not the last visit.

Super Tuesday

Watching politics from France lately has been interesting. Not only is there lots of coverage about the American Presidential candidates, but the French seem to have an in on who would be best for the United States. Also, they want to know why you would choose your candidate over others.

Politics here, even for those who are skeptics or could care less, seem to be integral to Parisian life. Sunday, I went to Versailles with two women named Francoise, both of whom are friends with Jacques my host dad. One Francoise works at the Biblioteque Nationale (National Library), and the other as a philosopher. When we got into the librarian’s car, the first thing she mentioned to the other woman was if she heard about the shot-gun marriage of President Nicholas Sarkozy to model/chanteuse Carla Bruni.

No, she didn’t ask first the usual of French nicities, like how you were and such. It was a 15-20 minute conversation about how disgraceful and unusual it is for such a marriage to happen in not only a private home, but in the Presidential Palace! The sheer outrage and rapid-fire speaking was not only emulated by Jacques, the French have some unique facial expressions for when they talk about something they either detest or have great suspicion of. Raised eyebrows, hints of sarcasm, and tones of voice which rapidly change from sweet and savory to burning hot staccato.

Needless to say, these outbursts of Latin emotion are moreso if you don’t talk around different things to reach your true opinion. I tried this the first night I was here with no avail, as the French people around me seemed to lose interest since I wasn’t providing them with an almost blatant opinion at that second. Perhaps this cultural difference will grow on me, as being more upfront with opinions seems to garner praise and trust here in France. Many of the teachers and some of the books I have been reading say the same thing.

Which is why Sarkozy is perhaps so crude to many of the people I have met. His not-so-clear intentions regarding women, regarding the government, regarding anything seem to put the French in a nervous twitter. It’s almost the same body language reaction as passion…the eyes become a bit wild, the ahnds start to gesture, and the face crinkles. I know this seems exactly the same as in the United States, but I seem to feel a bigger production is made of nervousness here. That while subtle antics usually prevail, the facial motions of disbelief are so strong that they could stop Cher from getting more plastic surgery.

The reaction so far to Super Tuesday is one of suspense, one that the French like. Since no candidate on the Democratic side has a clear majority, and because the Republicans are still so fragmented, this battle royale has many French licking their lips in anticipation of more witty banter and ironic pointings.

Bits about Food

Having now been in France for more than two weeks,  I feel that I am reasonably comfortable to start analyzing the cuisine…which in many ways is extraordinary and familiar, yet at the same moment a little strange.

Cost. This is probably the greatest difference that I can tell so far. Due to higher prices because of the huge metropolitan area (as well as higher commodities prices), food tends to cost much more in France. Quick, a French fast-food establishment that is slightly lower on the quality scale compared to McDonald’s, would seem like a cheap place for a greasy meal. And for France, it might be…but do not expect the cost to be worth it. A menu item consisting of a burger, fries, and a drink can cost about 8 euros, or about $12. Considering this is a meal that would cost half the amount in the United States, it is a bit shocking.

Fast-food outlets are not as expensive as the everyday restaurant, where for a meal consisting of an entree with perhaps an added salade or drink, you may pay 15-20 euros. This translates to $22.50 to $30 for one person.

Along with the higher price, the portions are smaller. While at a chain restaurant in America might have a large slab of beef along with generous helpings of side dishes, French restaurants serve portions that are usually what would be a little larger than a child’s portion in the United States.

While the higher prices and smaller portions might put off many people towards European restaurants, there are several advantages to eating here. One is the ingrediants. Because of stricter laws regarding foodstuffs (origin, processing, etc.), more food is either fresh or low amounts of preservatives (aka, corn syrup). While it may sound bad at first to be drinking straight sugar in a bottle of Coca-Cola, the taste and the natural quantities of materials not only is refreshing, but perhaps even…healthy? Particularly, I enjoy Fanta here…since it has no syrupy flavor and actually has real orange juice in it.

The French do like to eat lots of fresh food…and this means lots of meat as well. As a former vegetarian, trying to eat no meat in France elicts stares and questions. “So, you don’t eat meat…but do you eat chicken?” one host mother said to a classmate. Daunting as it may be, there are actually more options now then there used to be for those who still want to nourish themself in France without having a salade at every meal. Though still rare, there are a variety of new vegetarian restaurants. Also, Paris has many residents who are of Arab or of Southern Asian descent. Many of these restaurants have tofu dishes, vegetarian meals, halal, and different choices regarding vegetables compared to the very French version of “salade” (lettuce, tomato, maybe onion or cucumber).

Having said all of this, I feel that most times I travel to Europe, I eat better. The portion control (and the price) makes me choose a bit more carefully what I will be eating. The ready availability of small sandwhich shops and creperies around the city also provide a cheap (well, $5 or $6 is cheap) alternative to sitting down for the “French Restaurant Experience.”

The Plunge

There is a point when traveling, most experts and random strangers have told me that is most distinct….the plunge.

This is when those sad feelings start to come, the confusion mounts, and suddenly, nothing about the cheery place you are now in seems cheery anymore.

Yesterday is when the plunge started to happen for me. It was a combination of things: differing interests from the forming groups of friends, almost two weeks of being away from home, and my French speaking almost hitting a wall. Many people talked about this to me, and I’ve experienced it in the past…but this time I thought it would have been different.

The first time I went to Europe I was so shocked and awed by everything that I made legends out of everything I saw for years afterwards. That age was interesting because I was changing into a teenager, discovering myself.

The last few times I took the plunge it was a little more dramatic, since I was either alone or with a tour-like group in which I had either too much or too little control of my activities. One is extremely lonely and filled with half-spoken conversations, while the other is short bursts of speak while being led by a handler into a cage that transports its occupants from Historical Destination A to Historical Destination B. Both have their benefits as well…being able to play either game of lonely prospector or herded sheep is one that the vast majority of the world’s population will not be able to do.

So this experience called “tourism” and “traveling” leaves me perplexed at my mission within the whole scenario. I had a meeting with Rosa today, one of the IES Paris directors who loves to laugh. When meeting with me, she asked me why I am here…and for a few reasons I spat out the same answers I keep giving. “Well, I want to work in Africa or in Europe for an ONG (the acronym for non-government organization in French). But I also like art and I used to be a musician.”

It was clear later on how confused I must have seemed to her, after telling her I quit cello a few years ago because I wanted to follow something else. Then I caught myself.

Follow.

Like a sappy Oprah moment or perhaps an action-packed Maury Povich revelation that I was not the father, it replaced the old light bulb that I may have forgot burnt out. I was so used to following either other people in a tight agenda, myself in almost an aimless quest for randomness, that I may have left out those things that I wanted to do which made me strong.

So today I went to the Picasso Museum and decided to heal the plunge in my own way: by doing something, anything, to get out. Structure is so integral in helping me discover more, and perhaps that will be the best for my French as well as meeting people and getting out of this funk.

Getting to know the surroundings will take time, and my impatience is getting the best of me. So slowing down is probably best in some ways, while having more focus and direction in my pursuits.

One week later…

To say the least, the last week has been nothing short of incredible. I’ve met so many people, gone to do many touristy things, and am adapting to the rapid amount of French which is confronting me at every turn. Here is a bit of a catch-up.

I came back from Brittany on Monday last week and did a fast trip to my host-families’ apartment on the other side of town. My first night, I had dinner with Jacques (my host father), his son, his son’s girlfriend, a co-worker of Jacques, and another family friend. Let me preface this by explaining the house. Jacques lives near the richer part of Paris, in a two-story apartment. There is a small kitchen, a large salon and library (which Jacques lives in), a dining room with a large mural for walls (with cool hidden cabinetts), and Jacques’ son’s music room…this rounds out the first floor. On the second are the bedrooms for Jose and I as well as our bathroom and Jacques’ work space. I have a floor to ceiling window, which I open and has large shutters.

Jacques is kind of important. He works for a major art museum as a director, and during the weekend restores 16th, 17th, and more modern paintings from home. Like the kind they have in museums. I came home the other day, and after almost stepping on it, he told me about the painting he was restoring by the artist Jacques de Bataille (from the 1700’s).

So yes, much mystery and astoundment surrounds living there. Jose is my roommate, who is really cool and smart, and from San Francisco.

The rest of the week consisted of orientation (with the funny IES staff), visiting places such as Montmartre, St. Michel, Les Champs Elysees, and the Eiffel Tower. The touristy stuff is ok for now, since I have no plan to really do much more of it after the first week. My agenda I want to pursue would be more towards getting involved in either and internship or an outside university, and in addition a few classes (like maybe an accordian one?). I’ve met some great people, and I’m a bit relieved that most of the other IES students are pretty easy-going, knowledgeable, and in general, fun.

At the moment, I have a bit of a cold, since while Paris has had good weather in the last week (umm 50’s in January?), it has turned a bit colder. Since my jacket was stolen right before I left, I need to get a new one, as well as a haircut. I feel like these could be expensive things, but definitely unique. Be ready for pictures soon

Arrival

Umm, France. How you always sneak up on me with your crazyness.

I’ll start from the beginning.

The American Airlines flight was ok, with the flight crew being amazing despite the terrible food, malfunctioning entertainment system, and the incredibly bad turbulence. At one point I may have been crying, as we kept bouncing in mid-air, drinks almost flying. The flight attendants were even complaining how it was making them queasy.

So, we get to Charles de Gaulle airport and then taxi for about 20 minutes. After arrival, I manage to secure a cart, find the bags, and book it to the RER train (Paris’ unique system of express trains). This one would take me directly to the center of the city. What followed was what I like to think of as the wild French metro dash.

For many reasons, the French haven’t changed their subway system drastically in the last 40 years. Hence, there are stairs EVERYWHERE. Not just one case to link to another subway line or train station, but maybe five. So, there I was with my huge bags trying to lug them up and down. After I got to Gare Montparnasse, I decided to fork over 9.50 euros and just keep them in a locker as I lugged my computer and carry-on around the city. My quest was to burn time, which I accomplished through buying a phone card, getting coffee, trying to track down my school, and buying a cashmere scarf (15 euros, thank god for sale season).

There are a few things that I immediately have forgotten about France. First, never, ever, make any noise on a train, including subways. People stare. And staring at people is not a wise idea either, because they generally get suspicious. Another thing: everyone is so dressed up! But, why is everyone only wearing brown and black? Mystery still yet to be decoded.

Paris has this certain elusive griminess to it. Old things are cool, but many of the buildings seem to be built in the 70’s and have not changed since that period, leaving a dated and almost grungy feeling amongst a damp city. Smells emanate from large mobs trying to cross against the light, from small Pomme de Pain (a ubiquitous sandwich chain) wrappers, puddles of questionable substances. It’s just a bizarre time warp, as if the city was somehow caught still in the 80’s in which my old French textbooks presented it as. Maybe this is due to the different path the French have taken compared to America.

So I then took the TGV (Trains de Grands Vitesse=holy shit this is fast) to Rennes, where I connected with another train which took me to St. Malo, a small city perched in the ocean. Guillaume lives in Dinard, which is it’s twin across a small bay. Waking up here this morning I could feel the warm, 50 degree air, so I went for a walk. There are palm trees, a boardwalk, and lots of amazing old people. Tonight is a sort of mini-party to welcome me (whaa?), so I decided I would make the coma-inducing red beans and rice that might be too spicy for the French people. Anyways, I am writing this at an American-themed bar which has an amazing “Illinois Valley Ice Cream” sign that I will take a picture of shortly.

Departure

I leave home in a matter of hours and I’m a plethora of emotions. Not only have recent details excited me beyond belief about my homestay experience, but also in general the oppurtunities that are starting to present themselves.

Ok, to now be a little less vague.

I recieved notification about my host family last week, and was able to get into contact with him. Jacques was very mysterious at first, only revealing that he worked at the Pompidou Center (Paris’ large modern art museum and exhibition space), and that he lived in the northwest part of the city. Later, my future roommate Jose sent me a message giving me odd hints about what was about the neighborhood, and not further elaborating upon Jacques, saying that, “3/4 of Jacques is the mystery.”

So, here I am with a mystery…one that has been partially answered. Jacques emailed me back to tell me that yes, like I suspected, he does live alone, hence he has room to host IES students. Also, that he has a son which works in the city, and a daughter studying in London. Perhaps the rest will unveil itself in due time.
——

My mind turns to what I might be missing. My friends held a going-away party for me this last Saturday, and it amazed me how bizarre I felt for not seeing some of the people for long stretches of time. Perhaps it was the best thing to have this party so that I could acknowledge this gulf, and then go on to say that I will be distant for even longer. Physically.

As much as I complain about such spaces, I think they help better define my travel and living experiences. Taking time when we can with the people who matter to make them matter seems ever more important.

Departing always gives this sense of intense adventure and anxiety. Getting out the bags for a new trip, getting my supplies, and then preparing myself for a journey. It’s almost what now defines me, as a guy who has a sense of wanderlust. As a man (did I write man?) who defines himself among the things he does instead of will do. This sense of accomplishment is not an ego-booster, but a sign that my life is changing into something more stable and directed. I would like to think there may be nothing better, but I don’t know that.

Today I will say goodbye to my familiar settings, tangible goods, and people. Tomorrow I will arrive in Paris, get in to the city, then wait for a train to Brittany. At the end of the day (and after 18 hours of travel), I will be seeing Guillaume. This is striking, and it gives me a sense of wonder.

T Minus 13 Days

It’s been perhaps years in the making. After years of high school French classes, after a few trips that cemented a sentimentality, and struggling through college repetoir. My second “study abroad experience” is merely a week and a half away.

My decisions to leave and go abroad were obvious in many respects: I’ve always loved to travel, I wanted an opportunity to change my horizons, and most basic of all, to just leave, to get out. The process so far has been complicated in some senses, namely of bureaucracy and carelessness regarding my home university’s attention to this process. Instead of doing a shorter program directly by the school, I chose to take part in a longer, semester-style trip. IES, the organization which I will be studying through in Paris, was fantastic. They guided me through the steps to get the oddly complicated visa process going as well as seemed genuinely interested about my well-being in regards to leaving. The reactions from IES balanced the sheer feeling of neglect, as my home school sent me only two emails regarding the process, never confirmed my acceptance until the last possible day, and provided few resources (just for me to talk to one girl who went on the trip last year) for me to adjust.

But now, I have the visa, all the red tape is over with, I’ve moved out of my apartment, and am almost just sitting around. Just waiting. Ah! Can I leave yet?