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."