Mes souliers sont rouges, adieu mes amours...

I have been in America a week and a day. In a week and a half I have been in three different climates, two timezones, and four airports. The past two weeks have been a blur of studying, writing, exams, celebrations, passage (and its dull near relative, interminable waiting), security checkpoints, twinkling lights, and crinkling wrapping paper. I can't convince myself that I was in Paris at the beginning of this month, or that I was in Boston only four months ago. I feel stretched between continents, cultures, times, incarnations of myself. I am slowly unpacking the changes wrought by living in another culture and living alone without TV or internet (and without phone sometimes) from some bottomless suitcase that managed to make it through with my carry on luggage. I know now it will take me sometime to finish that task.

The dreaded reverse culture shock has not completely hit me yet, as I have been careful not to immerse myself too quickly into American culture or into its vast, loud public forums. I notice now that America is a much louder, flashier place than I remember. People don't stare as much here, and I must be careful to say excuse me and not the curt French pardon when I accidentally invade their much bigger personal space bubbles. I am relieved to not have to formulate complex French sentences for simple tasks such as mailing a package or asking for directions. As much as I enjoyed dressing nicely, I have reluctantly admitted to myself that it is kind of nice just lounging about in jeans and t-shirts.

In Rilke's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, the narrator remarks that in Paris he learned to see. I feel much the same. I have noticed that I observe differently, perhaps more deeply, than before. Faces, bodies, buildings, both familiar and unknown, have taken on new and different shapes and attributes. This is splendid, but also a tad alienating. I feel slightly mismatched for this place into which I have returned, suddenly surrounded by people. I never realized how much time I spent alone in Paris until now. This has had odd consequences for me - sometimes I don't know how to act or what to say. My conversation is littered with references to and stories about places, people, events that often the person to whom I am speaking has never known. Of course I saw people in Paris and had friends, but they knew me as the Peter in Paris - not the Peter recently returned from Paris. They were witness (whether they knew it or not) of one work in progress, so to say. The friends and family I have seen Stateside are witness to a different work; perhaps the revisionary stage of the previous state of myself, or its sequel.

At the same time that I feel out my reactions to this homecoming, I also feel more assured of myself. The circumstances and experiences of my time in Paris has allowed what I would call the sturdier, more finite elements of my personality and interests to surface in my mind. I simply know myself better - a statement I have rarely made.

Several people, French and American, have remarked to me that the United States and France have such a convoluted relationship of love and hate due to the fact that they are so similar. The cliche of two sides of the same coin is wholly appropriate here; with France being the intellectual, abstract face, America the epicurean, tangible face. I found in so many of facets of French culture what had been lacking for me in American culture, and immersion beneath those facets nourished my tastes and talents to an incredible degree. But, because I now like the very pedestrian French admiration for good wine, espresso, and mineral water(!), I could very well be a snob. Because I have learned the pleasure of passing time and not spending it, I could be intolerably not in a hurry. These are just some of the many bits of the French mindset that have smudged off on me, and which serve to delineate the boundary between America and France. Maybe some of these smudges are temporary, and will fade after a good, star spangled washing - but I am sure that others, like red wine on a white shirt, are there to stay.

On that note, this will be the last entry I make in this blog. No longer am I Another American in Paris. I'm just another American now. Obviously I will not forget nor soon stop talking about the time I spent across the pond. I have the feeling that I left a piece of my heart floating in the Seine, as much as Paris frustrated me at times. The grace of memory is that, aided by hindsight, it softens rough edges. Few periods of my life have been more enjoyable than the one coming to a close right now, and its sweetness in my mind will only grow with the years, until it is as sugary and delectable as all those French desserts I know I will be missing.

"Time is Poetry"

Everyday I wake up and realize I am this much closer to going back to the United States. I have so much to do that occasionally this thought invokes panic, but usually it just brings a sense of wonder and weariness. Wonder that I am really across that big black ocean, weariness that I have to cross it again and readjust, reflect, return to reality. There's a big slab of the Real World waiting for me when I get back.

But - in the meantime, I'm making the most of my time. I finally made it round to the Centre Pompidou, Paris's world-class Modern and contemporary art museum. The outside looks completely different from pretty much any building in Paris, as you can see from the picture. The escalator runs up the side of the building, giving you a gorgeous view of the city which I unfortunately could not capture with my camera since it was with my bag in the coat check. Anyway, the museum was amazing, and I am not really a fan of modern art. But it had some incredible installations and a wealth of historical work by Picasso, Matisse, Magritte, and others. There was also a Futurist exhibit, which was probably my favorite part. I'm glad I got to go while it was in town. Another thing I must mention is that the audio guides for the paintings really helped to explain what the artist was thinking, and I often walked away feeling like I actually understood modern art. Imagine that! There was a low point to the experience, though: waiting in line for my bags, 2 old ladies tried to cut ahead of me! They weren't together, either. Rather than call them out, I decided to give them hard stares and not condescend to two people who truly should have known better. Then, when I got to the counter, a man who had been in the wrong line hopped in front of me. But I was served first. Line cutting is a ridiculous problem in Paris (at least). I know a lot of people who have seen or been victim to it. I think it's a really absurd thing to do, especially when you are over the age of 12 or so and know better!

The next interesting place I went to was the Basilique de St. Denis, just north of Paris by the stadium where Les Bleus won the World Cup back in '98. This cathedral gets its fame for being the first Gothic structure in Europe, and for being the burial ground for most of France's royalty, as well as the site of many of it's coronations. What's not typically noted in the guidebooks is that the neighborhood the basilica is located in is...interesting. I came out of the subway into a shopping district that looked like Tim Burton's Gotham City from the original Batman movie: ugly, modern architecture built from a dull blanket of garbage and dirty concrete. This was replete with the peculiar feeling of becoming victim to an imminent but petty crime. I've never felt like this anywhere in Paris, even over by the Gare du Nord. But, I ventured forth in the name of curiosity. And, I realize now, it is pretty amazing to think that even though I have seen tons of cathedrals and basilicas and churches since I came to Europe, every one of them managed to impress me in some way or another. St. Denis is truly hard not to be impressed by simply for the fact that you can go and stand in front of the grave of Louis XVI, or the statue made from the death mask of Louis XIV. How often do you get a chance to be this close to such historical figures? In the crypt, there is a section where they are excavating the sarcophagi of ancient kings. The sheer oldness of Europe has not ceased to amaze me.

On Tuesday I went to my last class at AUP. I still have two finals and two final presentations, but no more class...I will miss my Modernist Migration class because for me it represented everything that I wanted out of college: a small group of intelligent people analyzing good books and expanding their minds. I have three new favorite books because of this class: Giovanni's Room, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, and Nightwood. No other class has had three novels make my favorites list. And the people in the class, for the most part, were great. We had good conversation, and the professor made us all feel very comfortable. I wish I could say the same about my French classes, which disappointed me due to the incoherence and disorganization of my professor. But, ca arrive, as the French would say.

On a completely different note, the French embrace Christmas much much more than I thought they would. Every storefront has garland and ribbon over its windows, every major street has beautiful arches of blinking lights over it. I'm somewhat pleased, since I was not sure how much Christmas is celebrated over here and I didn't want to feel depressed that I would essentially miss most of the Christmas season. At the same time, I have realized after doing some shopping, listening to Vince Guaraldi and Bing Crosby, and watching parts of A Christmas Story in the campus bar, that decoration and the aforementioned things play only a supportive role in creating the elusive Christmas spirit. For me, at least, Christmas is always equated with one thing: home. And that is what is missing for me right now.

Thanksgiving

My Thanksgiving post is a little late, as the Christmas season is already in full swing, but I am going to make one anyway. Halloween was kind of a dry-run for being in a country that doesn’t celebrate a holiday I’ve never not celebrated; at least then there were a few non-Americans around in costume. However, Thanksgiving does not exist at all over here. I made the joke to a few friends that it’s because the French aren’t thankful, which obviously is only slightly true.

In any case, Thanksgiving is, if nothing else, a family holiday – much more so than Halloween. This made it both weirder and harder for me to be in Paris. I went to class, which just did not feel right. I didn’t sit around and watch the Detroit Lions lose – I actually worked! Later, I was at least able to talk to a fellow Michigander (I know I am only one in the thinnest sense, but it counts for something, right?), and we held up our hands to show where we had lived.

The university held a big dinner for all of the students, which was very nice, but it felt a bit like a soup kitchen. We were given plastic plates and served buffet style by some very considerate professors. I got extra servings on all the vegetable dishes when I told them I was vegetarian. I also came across three of the largest vats of mashed potatoes I have ever seen. We ate sitting at rows of tables inside the main hall, with a big fireplace against the wall and three balconies overlooking the avenue below. I felt a little bit like I was in Harry Potter, and those who have read the novels should know what I mean…

The only really normal thing about this Thanksgiving was that I ate a lot. After the meal, I went with some friends to a nearby café. We discussed what we were thankful for, but there were so many of us that the conversation ended up breaking up into groups of twos and threes. I don’t know how the French do it, but if there is a large group of them eating together, they manage to support a conversation that includes all of them; I guess us Anglo-Saxons just aren’t suited to the art of discussion. Regardless, many of the things I was thankful for were echoed by the rest of the group: I’m thankful to have family and friends to miss at this time of year, thankful to have the opportunity to be in Paris, thankful to have the university make dinner for everyone, thankful to come from a country that has a holiday both as hedonistic and as surprisingly meaningful as Thanksgiving.

That night I went home and went to bed early, so I could wake up and begin working on Friday: I have two term papers due this week. Oddly enough, I’m excited about writing one of them. Shows how much of a literature nerd I am, I guess. I’m happy to say that my excursions around Paris have not been too limited because of my workload, though. I made an interesting trip last weekend: I went shopping, 19^th century style – as one can only do in Paris.

In the first half of the 19^th century, there were a series of covered passages constructed in the alleyways around the city. Shops and restaurants were installed, and of course great efforts were made to make them visually appealing. And thus the first shopping malls were created. They were very popular. People came from all over to see them and shop in them. However, with the coming of the first department store, Le Bon Marché, in the 1860s, the era of the covered passage came to a close. A few still remain yet, since Paris has rarely abandoned its past in any entirety. The majority of them are in the 9^th arrondissement on the Right Bank, an area just north of the Louvre and the Opera which seems to have never left the 1800s. I came off the metro in front of a grand Neo-Classical church, which I learned was Sainte-Trinité, constructed not long after the appearance of Le Bon Marché. While quite young for a Parisian church, it is rare for the fact that it is Neo-Classical, and not Gothic. From there I wandered through the neighborhood and the various covered passages, which were all beautifully decorated for Christmas. The shops inside were all mostly antiques, old books, and classic toys, fitting for their antiquarian environment. There were also some incredibly lush (and expensive) cafés, which really escape description in their luxuriousness.

From the 9^th arrondissement I went Westward towards the upper 8^th to see a Russian orthodox cathedral I have been meaning to check out for a while. I really wanted to attend a service, but not only was the cathedral closed to the public save for specific hours, the services were open solely to those confirmed in the church. Slightly disappointed, I navigated my way to the resplendent Parc Monceau, which, like so many Parisian parks, has its own unique character. My impression of the park was that it was much less frequented by tourists and somehow much more calming than Luxembourg or the Tuileries. It seemed to belong in its regality to the wealthy residents in the surrounding area. Despite the fact that it was quite chilly, I enjoyed my walk through.

For my creative writing class on Wednesday, we went to the mosque in Paris and had Moroccan mint tea in the unbelievably ornate tea room attached to it. I didn’t have my camera with me, unfortunately. Looking into the courtyard of the mosque, one felt transported to a different place. It was the same in the tea room. Though the tea room apparently gets very busy, the mosque itself certainly had a hushed air of holiness about it, such as one feels in a very old cathedral. While most of the class went home, I went with my professor and a few students to the roof of the Arab World Institute, which has a great view of Paris. During that time I talked for a long while with my professor about Sori Graham and we saw eye-to-eye on her poetry. Then we talked about churches and architecture for a while. It was nice to have this sort of connection with my professor because, while Northeastern’s professors are approachable and friendly, I find it is often hard to get past that initial obstacle of awkwardness when talking with them. I suppose that is one of the downsides of going to a school with over 15,000 students – shear numbers prevent any sort of intimacy. I have grown to be pretty well acquainted with my Modernism professor, as well, and in leaving AUP I will miss that friendship.

In spite of my difficulties and frustrations the last few weeks, I can still say that I will miss Paris very much when I leave. No, I won’t miss some of the people I have encountered, but I can’t yet dismiss the French as a whole, and I never will. But the things that have made this trip so amazing – fresh bread; a nice warm café to read in; the endless plethora of beautiful parks, churches, museums, promenades, stores, and restaurants; the history and the way it is ever present – those will be the things that I remember and miss dearly.

In the Trough

I think my little adventure in Paris has reached its definitive low point. The weather has been locked in periods of cloudiness and rain for days. I love my two English classes, but my two French classes (taught by the same French woman) are threatening to break my back - not because the work load is too large, but because my professor has no idea what she is doing, and never made a definitive plan for the semester. Now we are assigned papers with two days' notice, given vague outlines for looming research projects, and, worst of all, we are subjected to offensive, contradicting generalizations such as: "They don't teach you how to make sufficient essay plans in American schools" or "You Anglo-Saxons always want schedules." I am no patriot, but I am growing sick of anti-Americanism over here. I have not experienced it just in the classroom. I heard from a female friend that a girl was so disgusted by the fact that she was American that she wouldn't even look at her. Not one, but two writers I have seen speak in the past week have criticized the United States for unfair reasons. The very nice woman who owns the panini shop I go to made some gross generalizations about American eating habits during friendly conversation. It's not that these people are criticizing the United States that bothers me - everyone is entitled to his/her opinion, of course - but that many of these views are uninformed, overly general, or just plain ignorant. Feel free to criticize America, because we certainly are not perfect, but at least be educated about it.

As I mentioned above, I have seen two writers read in the past week. Actually, I have seen three. Friday night, I went to the Red Wheelbarrow, a little Anglo-American bookstore in the same neighborhood as the Bastille monument. Reading there was my Creative Writing professor, Anne Marsella, and a French author. I think both did a great job with their readings, which turned out a crowd that filled the cramped store. It was the French author who spoke ill of the United States, though not in an overtly critical way - more in a mocking tone, appropriate for an audience of English and Americans. I saw some of the same faces last night at The Village Voice, center of English-speaking literary life in Paris, when Jorie Graham read from her latest book of poetry. It was she who remarked that American students do not know how to read or appreciate poetry - an ignorant statement that offended me because I am an American student, and I would like to think that I know how to read and appreciate poetry. She was very wordy, expounding on and on about her poetry, its mechanics, its inspiration, society today, et cetera et cetera. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1996, and teaches at Harvard, which I guess gave her license to do this. Is there a point when one is entitled to a little arrogance and self indulgence? I don't know, but I think Jorie Grahame believes she has reached it. As for her poetry, I am sorry to say I was unimpressed. It struck me as cold, and it left kind of a metallic taste in my mouth.

The good news about this week is that I went to my very first opera on Monday night. It was an interesting, futuristic take on Mozart's The Enchanted Flute, done in its original German with French subtitles displayed on a screen over the stage. The direction was indescribable, really. The major set pieces were what looked like huge, inflatable mattresses (probably 8X15 feet) that were deflated, inflated, and carted about the stage by people in white labcoats, who also sang the choruses. The main characters wore a variety of odd costumes, the oddest of which being the Three Women with LED lights on their...well, you know. This all took place inside of the very modern looking Opera Bastille, which was simply breathtaking in its size and presentation. It is very sleek and does not at all possess the gilded, ornate decor one expects from an opera house. Photographs give it the appearance of blandness and even ugliness, but this is not the case in person. All in all I enjoyed the experience and I hope I am able to see another opera, someday.

A month from tomorrow I will be coming back to the United States. I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, I am very ready to have a roommate again, to have access to very un-French things like greasy slices of pizza, good beer, and American coffee, and to see all the people I love and miss. On the other hand, I will miss fresh, delicious baked goods, quality wine at affordable prices, and the heightened presence of intellectual/artistic life in the public eye. And all the beautiful architecture. My tastes have changed considerably, as have my views of many things. Many of my friends over here share with me the fear that we will be seen as snobby back in America. I guess that's to be seen, but regardless, I am looking forward to coming home.

Barcelona

This past Friday I think I finally crossed the line into the worldly traveler by taking a little trip into Spain. For the first time in my life, I was immersed in a place where I didn't speak the language (save for a few labor terms, but that's another story) enough to really even get around. It wasn't as scary as it could have been, given that for the most part the Spanish are pretty nice people, and a lot of them speak English anyway. Regardless, as the airplane came upon the pine covered hills peaking over the low clouds, it suddenly dawned on me that I was not just in France, but in Europe. I know this sounds kind of idiotic, but I have been so immersed in French culture and Paris for the past few months that it was almost as if it had not occurred to me that I was on another continent all the way across a big, black sea. I had forgotten there were other countries here, too. That's a very French perspective, if you ask me. In any case, this realization came with a thrill and a little bit of homesickness - I was all the way across that big black ocean...

My first impression of Barcelona was that it was very different from anywhere I had been before. Certainly it belongs in no other place than Europe, but it was very different from even the other Mediterranean city I have seen, Marseille. Shortly after flying in, I met my friend Emily for lunch and a little walking tour. She took me to a set of Roman columns in the old Gothic quarter of the city. It was a bit surreal, taking random backalleys in the falling night amidst a backdrop of Gothic architecture and gently lit storefronts, all to see a cluster of decaying columns left there some thousands of years ago. I don't imagine I will ever get over how splendidly old Europe is. The rest of the tour took us down several grand boulevards, past two of Gaudi's houses, around a humongous monument to Christopher Columbus, and down along the Mediterranean. For dinner, we went to Emily's homestay, who had invited me over. She spoke very little English, but was essentially fluent in French. Her daughter could not speak French, but could speak English. The conversation at dinner, then, shifted freely between English, Spanish, and French. It was very interesting. I didn't expect to get a workout for my French while in Spain! But the Signora liked me very much, and complemented me on my French, which was very nice. It was also good to eat a homecooked meal. I can't remember the last time I did that.

The next day Emily was sick, so I was on my own to explore the city. I had made an itinerary for myself before leaving, so what I wanted to see and how to get to it, at least. The first thing I saw was Parc Guell, a large green space designed by the avant-garde architect Gaudi. At the edge of the park, shown here, was a monument park with buildings Gaudi had designed. What's amazing to know about Gaudi's style was that most of his works were designed in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He died in 1926, and looking at his buildings, that is hard to believe. They seem to belong in another universe.

From the park, I descended back down the high hill upon which it sat, and wandered about for a while, enjoying the different sights and smells that came to me. (maybe not all the smells) Then I arrived at the magnificent Sangrada Familia, another building designed by Gaudi. This one is still being built. It is far and away the largest cathedral I have ever seen. The picture does it no justice, and I don't imagine any picture could. It's facade is incredibly elaborate - it looks alive with statues. The back side of the cathedral appears as if it is melting, sliding down itself in gigantic drops which, upon closer inspection, are depictions of nature. For a solid hour I wandered in circles around the building. I didn't go in because it cost 10 Euro, and because I was very hungry. I went back to the Gothic quarter, location of the next stop on my itinerary - the Picasso Museum. I ate lunch at a nice little tapas bar and was served by an extremely friendly waitress who was the antithesis to my experiences eating in France. No language problems, no rudeness, no wisecracks - it was very refreshing. I think the Spanish, unlike the French, have realized that their time for grandeur and world-shaking has long passed. Now they are content to live their lives, and it's very evident. Things just felt much more relaxed in Barcelona.

The Picasso Museum had been highly recommended to me. I found it interesting, as it showed the progression of his work from the amateur days until his death, but Picasso has never been my favorite artist. The building, located in the Gothic quarter, was quite beautiful and a stark contrast to the artwork it contained. Leaving the museum and heading towards another cathedral, I ran into a few friends from one of my classes in Paris. We got drinks together and then I went back to my hostel to rest. Later, I met with my friend Suzanne, who had come with her class in Alicante to visit the city. We ended up at a party on the top floor of an apartment building. There were several French people there, and conversation was held in Spanish, Catalan, English and French. Sometimes I was listening in Spanish, responding the best I could in French, and then turning to another person to speak English. A few times I was mistaken for being French, which I guess means I play the part well. It was a great experience, but a little exhausting - particularly because the party did not end until 5am. I went back to my hostel, and slept for a few hours before grabbing my flight back to Paris.

Oddly, in spite of my increasing annoyance with the French, I was happy to be back in Paris. As with returning from Marseille, it was different to feel as if I was returning home when I knew I was not. Still, I think Paris suits me more than Barcelona, though I hope someday I can return to that city. I am not a fan of hot weather, especially the kind they get in Southern Spain, and it has been delightfully cool here these past few days. It also has seemed that all the leaves changed while I was gone. With another two days left before class, I took advantage of the weather to go to some new places. On Monday, I visited the Musee Cluny, Paris's Medieval History Museum. It is situated in an old Gothic manor, and it has a beautiful medieval garden around it, as well as a nice cobblestone courtyard. The best part, though, was that I arrived just in time to see a concert of medieval music performed. The concert took place in a large hall of the museum that shared a wall with the old Roman baths, and where old statues of headless kings from Notre Dame had been placed. This certainly added to the atmosphere. After the concert I went to see the famous tapestries of the Woman with the Unicorn, that Rilke in particular describes at length in one of my new favorite books The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. It was great to see this crossroads between two works: the poetic description of a piece of art and the piece of art itself.

Yesterday was Armistice Day, commemorating the end of World War I. In America it is Veteran's Day. Strangely, we don't have a holiday for the end of World War II, either. I don't know the exact reason for this, but maybe it has something to do with what I have written about before - the difference between fear of war, and fear of the threat of war. In any case, I went to Chateau de Vincennes, just east of Paris. Because of the holiday, the chateau was closed, but I was able to wander around in the woods that once were frequented by the King of France - funny how royal hunting land is now where people go to jog and play. That's democracy in action, if I've ever seen it. I would say those woods were certainly fit for a king, though; I plan on returning to the chateau when it is open, and perhaps I will write more on it then.

Turn, turn, turn

The past week has been strange. I celebrated Halloween in a country where it is nothing more than a novelty, not a nationally accepted holiday. It was odd - seeing the random handfuls of Americans walking around dressed up, juxtaposed with the random handfuls of French children with their parents. I guess it was stranger just being somewhere that does not fully acknowledge an annual institution as Halloween. As long as I can remember I have known it, celebrated it in someway - and then, here, it was barely a blip on the social register.

Of much more importance, obviously, was the election. I am actually happy that I was in Paris to see it happen, where my inherent American difference is immediately more defined and more known to me - and where I would feel firsthand the world's opinion. It's no secret that Obama was "the world candidate", and I was a little frightened of what might be my reception in public the next day should McCain have been elected. The fact that I had to stay up the entire night to see the results come in, rather than just watch the prime time news, gave things an added flare of drama.

The café on campus was open all night, so I went there at about 9:30 after seeing the poet Linda Robertson read her excellent essay "Disquiet." It was packed from wall to wall. They were out of beer by midnight. As the results rolled in, the political orientation of the crowd was exceedingly obvious. Each time Obama claimed a state, the roars hit the rafters. Each time McCain got a state, there was a wave of raised middle fingers and boos. I was in the right place.

For most of the night I milled from group to group, talking to people, meeting people. The crowd was truly international - there were French, Arab, Spanish, African, and of course American students all together, all backing the same candidate. Some people, many of them not American, were very optimistic - one friend of mine never doubted once that Obama would win. Others, like myself, had been a bundle of nerves since Monday.

The hours crawled by, the polls closed in giant chunks, and the outcome was getting clearer and clearer. Around 3:00am, many students went home. Most of us had class the next day, after all. I thought about it. But then Obama won Pennsylvannia, and the joy that swept over the bar was incredible. I had to stay to see the finish.

Around 4:50am, the exhausted bartenders starting handing out glasses of champagne. The West coast polls were closing at 5am Paris time. The entire bar stared at the televisions at either end of the room, and the collective anticipation was tangible.

5AM came, the numbers flashed across the screen, and then my heart flooded with a joy and relief that I had never known. Barack Obama had been elected President of the United States of America. The room exploded. People were cheering and screaming. Others were crying. Everyone was hugging, no matter if they knew who they hugged or not. One guy kissed everyone in a ten foot radius on the cheek. And then, all of us together broke out into an off-key rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Chills went up my back, and I could feel my face glowing. I was surprised to find myself proud to be an American.

The bar closed directly after this, and the crowd spilled out into the street. We must have woken up the entire neighborhood with our rapturous and celebratory screaming. Cars and motorcycles rode by, honking their horns.

A few random people and I decided to go to Harry's New York Bar to see Obama's acceptance speech. It had begun to rain as we ran into the metro station, screaming and cheering. A group of Frenchmen gave us high fives. When we boarded the train, shaking with excitement, the Parisians on their way to work stared at us with equal confusion and annoyance. One woman yelled that she had a headache. We didn't care. The reign of the Neo-Cons is over.8 years of shame - over.

We ran through the station we got off in, cheering still. We got lost trying to find the bar, but we still managed to get there in time to catch about half of the speech. The crowd had filled the bar and come well out into the street. It was equal parts European and American, but it was all for Obama. I stood, crammed against the doorway, cold and wet, watching history change before my eyes, which were quickly filling with tears. God forbid that I should ever forget that moment.

Unfortunately, I won't forget something else about that moment. The French have been complaining about George Bush for 8 years, and now that they are seeing a change, what do they do? In the case of the 20 somethings near me, they stood in a circle and talked loudly the entire length of Obama's speech. Another small group stood by the bar and did not seem remotely interested. Then there were the people on the subway, annoyed that history had ruined their quiet commute. I'm afraid my opinion, at least of the Parisians, has been permanently settled on the negative. I've written a few more vindictive things about the French in my diary - words about their obsolete culture, senseless arrogance and cruelty, etc - but I'll stow those now. This is a time of celebration.

The next day I read the French newspapers to get their reaction. Of course Obama was their candidate, but they seemed more focused on the long, ugly path ahead. Still, some of the news blurbs - simple headlines such as An Historic Moment or Everything is Changing - brought the tears back to my eyes. I've been listening to the Byrds a lot lately.

Tomorrow I head to Barcelona for the weekend. I'm glad I will not have to worry about being heckled over the election results. In closing, I shall leave a quote from one of my favorite movies which I think applies a lot to the past few days...

"Everybody loves a hero. People line up for them, cheer them, scream their names. And years later, they'll tell how they stood in the rain for hours just to get a glimpse of the one who taught them how to hold on a second longer."

Beginning to Awake

Have I been awake the past two months? Have I really been here two months? I cannot be dreaming – I never would have dreamed that I would live in Paris. Period.

And yet I feel as if I am starting to rustle from my blissful sleep. Reality, seldom beautiful, is seeping in at the edges of my reverie.

A few weeks ago in class we read an essay by Julia Kristeva called “Toccata and Fugue for the Foreigner,” describing the ways in which we are all foreign, and how we must recognize that fact for xenophobia and its nasty siblings, genocide and racism, to disappear. The essay is an exploration of what it means to be foreign – feeling isolated from one’s mother country, residing in the silent land between two languages, basking in solitude and mutual hatred. When I first read it, I hated it. And in fact, I still hate it. Kristeva has a way of making ridiculous assumptions and using detestably melodramatic comparisons and imagery to get her point across. But – many of her points are very insightful. Maybe it’s finally starting to sink in for me that I’m just not welcome here. I feel eloigned from the United States on many levels – culturally, politically, physically – and yet, I feel little closer to these things in France. I will never be able to speak or understand French as well as the French can, as much as I would like to. And as for English, I use it with friends, but entire days have passed where I have only mumbled it to myself, and any other speaking I have done has been as The Bumbling Foreigner. As for mutual hatred, I’m remarkably ambivalent. I don’t like the word hate. I know I have that emotion, but I try to suppress it. The French certainly don’t try though. Or at least, the average Parisian does not. I remember coming into a restaurant back when I felt self-conscious of that fact that everyone looks at you when coming into restaurants here, and a friend of mine said, “I don’t like feeling hated when I go out to eat.” Me neither. Who does? I don’t like feeling hated on the subway, on the sidewalk, in a store, at the museum…and I can feel a nice hot glowing pinprick of resentment blooming in myself. Paris is spoiled by the Parisians, many say. Baudelaire himself wrote: “Paris, center and radiance of idiocy.” The other day an old man smacked me in the face with his bag as he was sitting down on the train. He didn’t say a word to me. He just looked at me like I had shoved my head at him while he was sitting. A woman practically tripped me as I was leaving the metro. Didn’t say a word. I was crossing the street and paused in the middle so a cyclist could go by. “Attention!” she screamed at me, and then felt it necessary to repeat it and sigh dramatically as she passed. I traded exasperated looks with a man smoking a cigarette, and I have no idea if he was making it at me or the woman. In a store, I gingerly began to pull a sweater off the (apparently) wrong shelf and a clerk quickly and curtly reminded me that the display was over there. What’s wrong with these people? What arrogance inspires them to these ends? A newspaper headline today read: “America: Why they don’t think like us.” Implicit in that title is the sense that the way “we” – the French – think is superior. I won’t argue whether or not America’s way of thinking is superior, but where do the French get the authority to make that claim? They have the Maginot Line, numerous bungled land wars in Asia, two horrendous Empires, and three failed revolutions under their belt. They played a large part in creating the colossal debacle that we call the Twentieth Century.

I’m bordering on nationalist rhetoric here, but I’m sure when it comes to the nitty-gritty I couldn’t say many better things about America. What we have over the French in military and economic conquest they have over us in high art and cooking. Still, it bothers me that these thoughts have come to me because of a headline in a newspaper and a few encounters with some surly Parisians. The sense of my own foreignness is becoming more and more apparent to me. It’s not just about people staring at you when you speak English in a restaurant.

And yet I still love Paris. On one particularly frustrating day, when I had all but given up at the idea of courtesy, I stopped in at my local bakery to buy a baguette. It was still hot in my hands as I left, and with the first bite I could only smile. Yesterday I went to the Viaduc des Arts – a rather phenomenal street where a viaduct was converted into a series of little art galleries and artisan shops. In many of these spaces I saw the artists hard at work themselves, painting or sewing or what have you. On top of the viaduct, an urban garden has been planted, creating a roof level park with an interesting view of the neighborhood around it. Where else could you find this sort of innovation and dedication to beauty and art?

Yesterday evening, though, things were slightly put in perspective for me. The photographer known simply as Reza came to speak at AUP, thanks to my French professor. He is known for photographing scenes of misery and conflict around the world since the late ‘70s. He grew up in Iran under the Shah, and at age 16 he began posting photos around public places showing the Shah’s despotic policies. At 22 he was captured and tortured for five months. Upon his release, he began photographing scenes from the Iran-Iraq War, then exiled himself in Paris. Since then, he has photographed the Russian and American conflicts in Afghanistan, street life in Egypt, social unrest in the Philippines, the genocide in Rwanda and countless other scenes from which the Western world has turned its collective eye. But he has done more than that, for he believes very strongly in the humanitarian cause – he established Afghanistan’s first free press and founded a charity organization to support the rehabilitation of culture in the post-Taliban Kabul. His photographs themselves have led many to action. His message is one of peace, understanding, and humanity. And he has one of the most kind, sparkling smiles of any one I’ve seen. I had to ask myself, looking at this man’s moving pictures, how has he retained his faith in humanity? He has been physically and psychologically tortured, shot at, wounded by shrapnel, and witness to innumerable tragedies. I’m pretty disillusioned, and I’ve never experienced any of these things. His view is a world view, yet one that is simultaneously outside the corrupt system of “humanitarian” aid offered by the West to third world nations. He believes that when one commits wrong against another, it is a wrong against the entire species. He told us stories that could make the most jaded (like myself) believe in some shred of fate. I was inspired, but also ashamed, because I know I am a part of the system that created the atrocities he has captured on film. And so are the French. I guess this is where I wrap things up with some nice little bow implying the world – we’re all human, nationality doesn’t matter, etc. I just don’t know if I can make things that tidy, though. I’ll leave it at this: if a man such as Reza can have hope and charity and kindness, I suppose I can too.

I’ve felt pretty disconnected from the world outside, from responsibility and the future, while I’ve been here in Paris. I just sip my espresso or my fantastic wine, and look at beautiful things and beautiful people. Would someone in Afghanistan believe that people do that? By being American, I was born into an enormous amount of privilege and freedom of all sorts even for the West – and while the lush life of Paris is great, maybe I should start thinking about using some of my privilege and freedom for the benefit of others.