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.