Living or Traveling: Culture divides and people like me

Ever since my year abroad there, I have wanted to live in Paris. I can't explain what it is, just that I have never felt so at home in any other city. I feel like I belong there. It's not just the city -- I've met a lot of people who have great things to say about the city and nothing good about the people, but I love the people. I speak the language more than just the words.

But I didn't go to Paris after graduation, I went to Cambodia, and I've found all sorts of amazing opportunities here that are exciting and interesting and I'm quite sure that it's a fantastic place to begin my career. The problem is that sometime over the past several months, I got it into my head that I could never actually live in Paris and do what I want. In Europe, maybe, but not in Paris. That is, of course, ridiculous.

As you know, I just went back to Paris, and was quite surprised to find that I still loved it just as much as before, perhaps even more, and felt just as home as before. In fact the amount to which I did feel at home was really disturbing -- after the first day, when I felt like a tourist and THAT was upsetting -- so much that I  kept forgetting in I was in Paris, this grand city and word that was this far-off, inaccessible place in my mind. I guess in self-defense, I decided that since I could never live there, I should forget how much I enjoy being there. The Ego is a crazy thing, isn't it?

What I mean to say is that for the last several months, my life has been nothing but cultural divides and language barriers. The experience I'm getting, the amount I'm learning and growing, is already noticeable to me and to others, and I have no doubts whatsoever that years down the line, it will count as one of the most marking experiences of my life.

However. It's strange, I hate saying this, because I do love learning about new cultures and immersing myself in them, seeing what it's like on the other side and in some ways it feels like dissing this place. But I'm not, and I don't have to be.

The fact is that I want to spend my life somewhere where I am not a stranger, where I get the culture and the language and have a mutual understanding with the people around me.

Here, walking out my door brands me immediately. I cannot go anywhere anonymously. The Cambodian people are warm and friendly, but I will never be one of them, never truly belong. I am Barang. And then everything else, but first I am white.

I don't want to say that Cambodia is not a good country, the culture is bad, or anything of the sort. It's just different, fundamentally and in every possible way, from what I know. Because of it, there is and always will be some disconnect between us, a gap that is just too wide to leap. We will always be negotiating, meeting in the middle.

I don't want to live forever like that. I count on staying, as I've said, for anywhere between two or three more years, and intend on using that time as fully as possible. But after that, it will be time to find some place where I can be home. Whether that's somewhere in the world with my parents, or even better, in Paris (and that's always on the list, always the place where I am going).

In many ways I feel more French than American and often feel like a stranger in America. Paris needs to be where I end up -- and therefore I'll find a way to do what I want there -- because it is home. It is where I am at home, where my energy syncs up with the energy around me, and living is as easy as breathing.

Going back reminded me how beautiful that is.

Lost in Paris (Again)

It has been a year. One full year, one year of life and a few hundred lifetimes. I dove into, discovered, adapted to, and built a life inside another world that had nothing to do with the life I had previously, and what was my plan before has melted down and built back up into something entirely surprising. Where I am is not where I thought I'd be. What was immense passion has become sheer obsession, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

And now--yes I know I haven't updated in forever and there was a whole life in Colorado that you missed because I didn't want to stop to put it in language, didn't want to waste time on words when living was enough--I've returned to a life I had.

Two years is not a long time. And it is.

The last time I was in Paris, I was still a student, still fresh off the experience, still reliving it every day. Now, I've entered into the Big Bad World of Adulthood, and have spent eight months in an entirely different universe, and Paris became a word.

Not a place, but a word, a word that means a time, a moment in my life when everything changed, when I changed and everything I thought was my essence was burned away, and what remained was so much more than before.

But just a week ago, I pushed on the word and found it a door, and behind the door was a world, a city, a place that exists and lives and breathes. Not a dream, but flesh, rock, and bone, and not just a place but a place I know in my bones. It took a couple days, but it's not Paris the city of light, the grand European city that everyone talks about and loves, but a place I know. 

The streets, the metro, the buildings, it's familiar. It's not out there but right here, not a city in the world but a city in my heart. A different language, but one that came rushing back after a day (albeit still imperfectly) to the point where I've started dreaming in French again, and the first language that comes out of my mouth.

I have to say -- it's confusing as hell. It's equally as disconcerting as returning to the United States was after my year abroad. There is a girl in Paris who I knew, the girl I became, but I don't really know her anymore. My life is different now, I'm different now. How do we live together?

It's perturbing, to say the least, to reenter a dream you had. I don't know how to explain it, even to find the words to say why it's so perturbing. Is it good to be back? I don't know. Bad? Can't say that, either. It's not what it was and yet it's exactly how I left it...and that's as much as I can say.

Of Paris, I have no idea what to think. But as for the people here, it has been a very great joy to rediscover them and I have enormously enjoyed it. It makes leaving, once again, very difficult.

Paris is beautiful, but it makes my heart hurt.

At a loss for words (part 3)

It's somewhat fitting that when I get to the part in the story that left me speechless for the first time, I have no more words to say.

I can't tell you about Paris -- I already have too many times and stuffing it into words makes it into language, and I want to keep it in the same plasma state it was. I'd like to tell you -- about each moment and each now, and how the colors inside them blinded me, how everything burned and how I turned around one day and realized I wasn't lost anymore. But I can't. To do so would be a great disservice.

All I can tell you is that -- and what a silly, piddling statement it is -- I changed.

Maybe that's the theme I'm going for in this series, the only thing I can say for sure at the end of this mad, violent, busy, wonderful, intensely full period of life they call college. It's nothing but another door, but this door means something because I've changed -- but not just changed ---

I think the word I want is become.  I have become.

This past year, the final one, has been no exception. I spent the first semester staring at myself in a mirror and having no clue who was looking back, struggling to fit the life I had before with the life I had created. I knew I'd be culture shocked and thought I had prepared, but prepared to fight a monster whose face I didn't even recognize when I saw it.

Sure, there were the academics -- a thesis, for one --  but this year was about making a dream come true, and celebrating the journey. I think I did both spectacularly.

I have nothing more to say about it, which is not to say there is nothing to say about it -- about each year and each summer and each splendid moment that was terribly unperfect and perfect, and about this year, but again -- I can't. I've run out. Paris left me speechless and I haven't recovered my tongue yet.

I'm just the girl who has become, and turns to face the world with immense passion and determination. Who is either really stupid or a visionary, and I guess we'll find out soon enough.

It's been a fun ride. I wouldn't have wanted it any shorter or longer, any more or less, anything else than exactly what it was.

(Everything is always perfect, remember?)

The Aftermath: Paris the 2e Tour

I believe I mentioned, some time ago, that I was returning to Paris, and had some anxieties about it. I just looked through my recent posts and realized that I said nothing further, and yet one week ago, I returned from a ten day trip to the one city in the world that has managed to completely and utter capture my heart.

Well. Time to fix that.

I have trouble describing it in few words, but I think the main things are simple enough. The main anxiety was that returning to the place of such an incredible and life changing experience was bound to be a letdown, or strange, or that somehow my memory was rose-colored and I would not feel the same perfect peace and belonging as I did in living there. That I would feel the same terrifying unknowing that I did in returning to the USA after 11 months away, the same uncanny displacement that you can do nothing about but turn in circles until you find yourself (which didn't happen until December).

On this account, I shouldn't have worried. The second I arrived, I felt as though I had never left. Friends greeted me as though I had left the day before. The signs, the metros, everything. I only realized the sirens were different when one of my dancers pointed it out.

French people always ask me why in the world I would live in Paris when I could live in New York. I say, it's less stressful, and they say, well Paris is stressful too. I think it's not quite that, then -- the real fact of the matter is that Paris has an energy that I feel better in -- ça me correspond mieux.

The other thing about the trip was that it was so deeply and incredibly encouraging. The idea to come back for the April festival at Paris 7 started out as a mere possibility, a dream, and for a year it was all I thought about. Everything I did revolved around making it happen. I had dancers leave and a real dearth of funding until the last minute, but then suddenly we were there, and it was real. What had been a dream was reality, and it was exactly as I had wanted it to be.

Well, if I could do that -- suddenly it seems very possible to make other dreams come true. Of course, with time -- but I have time, my god I have so much time.

It was interesting -- people kept telling me how incredible it was that I did this, that I got a group from Columbia to Paris for the festival, and it allowed me to step back and be proud, because inside of it --

Honestly, it wasn't anything amazing. It was nothing more or less than something I had to do. Not doing it was not an option and therefore I had to find a way. Simple.

But either way, I know now, it's possible. You just have to be completely obsessed, and I am.

That's why, for the past week, I have not been depressed like I thought I might be after leaving Paris. I was missing it terribly on Tuesday, sure, but the pervasive energy has been so positive and exciting -- because I know I'm going back. I know it will be just as wonderful, and that I can make all my dreams come true.

You just have to give me a few years.

Re-opening Pandora's Box: Going Back to Paris

Let's call a spade a spade: in case you haven't heard, the eleven months I spent in Paris last year was hands down the most transformative experience of my life. However many months removed -- eight, I think -- I'm still figuring out exactly how transformative and what the ramifications are.

I probably couldn't tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that I spent a good several months after I came back trying to reconcile the person I had been and the person I had become. It was like staring in a mirror and having no idea who the person looking back was.

Well, I'm going back. Five weeks to the day, to be exact. And I'm not quite sure what to think.

Of course, I'm excited. I've been told by numerous sources that they have never seen me so at home as when I was in Paris. I found something I wrote about halfway through my time there: I don't know if I love Paris, but all I know is that I fell into living here as easily as breathing. There are people I haven't seen in months, and the culture, the city, the food...

But I also know that when I left, I left some incredibly powerful energy behind. And honestly, I'm not sure -- and I'm a little concerned -- about what will happen when I reopen that existence. It's not anything I can prepare for. Hell, I tried to prepare for the culture shock, but found myself facing a monster whose face I didn't even recognize.

Of course it won't be the same. A lot of time has passed since I left, and I've changed again. But I do wonder.

And then there are times when I don't worry, and I just remember how completely and ferociously alive I was, and I can barely speak for impatience.

I may have to amend the title of this post. I'm not going back to Paris.

For a week, I'm coming home.

A Day in the Life, I think

Friday, 25 March
I didn't go to class this morning -- well, that is the classes I'm supposed to be teaching. I didn't go because I had a hunch that my students wouldn't show up. I was right, by the way.

But either way I had been planning to sleep in, but was wide awake by nine thirty -- an aftereffect, I suppose, of being up at that time pretty much every day of the week. Yes, I know, it's not early, but I was hoping to sleep in more. Ah well; when it became clear that I wasn't going back to sleep, I got up.

Another sunny day -- they are becoming more and more common and I couldn't be happier. Someone told me that Paris is a different city in the spring and I don't doubt it. Already now, with the buds coming out and the sun, the world just seems to be breathing a giant sigh of relief, finally having gotten out of the prison of the imposing grey. Warm, too -- 17 degrees Celsius. While I have no idea what that translates to in farenheit, it means warm, it means I don't have to put on a jacket.

I took my time getting ready -- bringing my computer into the bathroom while I showered so I could listen to music, as I like to do whenever I have time to take my time. A nice breakfast, with a little extra coffee - I made it a bit too strong this morning, but drank it anyway, I don't really care that much.

In all I dawdled so much that I was ready to go about 11h30, which was when I wanted to leave anyway. I didn't have class until 14h10 (at the high school), but wanted to eat lunch. While it isn't always the greatest, it's free and I get to hang out with my friends. After lunch, I had an hour to prepare for my class -- "prepare" -- and used it to work on my research project, slogging through a book about the origins of dance in hopes of finding something useful for my work on duets.

NOTE:
In the time between when the above was written and now, on the following Tuesday, I became incredibly distracted by life, and was barely at home during the weekend -- and when I was, it was in a dehydrated mess on saturday night. I slept for the afternoon/evening, excepting a brief stint awake to watch the Bourne Identity and munch on cereal.

With that said I no longer have any clue what I was talking about or where I was planning to go with the post above. I believe it was going to be another day in the life, which works better when you remember everything about the day. But I will attempt to reconstruct it, just for kicks and giggles.

==

When I got to class, the students having rather surprisingly decided to show up today, we first went into the little room that I usually use and started in the normal fashion, having them introduce themselves to me and I to them, seeing as I rarely have the same group twice.

I was going to have them do this little language game that I usually do, where they create little creative scenarios based on prompts -- but right away I just felt this wall of negative energy and resistance. They didn't like the scenarios, they didn't like the idea, they were bored, and I was generally wasting their time.

Screw this, I thought. I don't want to be miserable for an hour. "Am I allowed to take you guys outside?" Immediately, I had their attention. Yes, they said. "Seriously?" Yep, seriously. "Then let's go."

With that, we left. We went to a little park nearby and settled down on the grass. Screw the scenarios, I thought, even I'm bored with them. So I started asking questions; what series did they watch, what kind of music did they like, what did they think was the stereotypical american. We sat in the sun and chatted for awhile. Simple. I don't know if they were convinced but it was a hell of a lot better than it could have been.

After that I stayed at the high school and worked for a couple hours -- I would have gone home normally, but one of the teachers had invited me to a little apéro at his apartment and we took the bus together at the end of the day. The apartment was tiny, 30 square meters-- not sure how that translates but very small in other words. There was 6 of us for the apéro, though for the first few hours it was only 4.

Oh yes, did I mention? Un apéro is technically a before dinner drink. This one started at 6pm. I left around 11h30. Oh we certainly ate enough -- cherry tomatoes with homemade mayo, toasts with some sort of spread that was really good but I never figured out what it was, open faced sandwiches with salmon or some kind of charcuterie, more sandwiches, and finally a tarte framboise -- raspberry tart. And in between -- kirs (cherry alcohol and white wine), a homemade cocktail with special Chilean alcohol, and plain old red wine. And cigarettes.

I swear my days are not always this exciting. Take saturday -- I stumbled out of bed, took the metro in the wrong direction on my transfer, and got to rehearsal late (it started,in theory, at 10, though when I got there everyone was having breakfast and coffee. Apparently I wasn't the only one exhausted). 5 hours of dance, an absolutely disgusting salad I bought from the supermarket -- never again -- and then I was home, nauseous, exhausted, etc. Dehydrated. A 5 hour nap, a movie break, and back to bed.

Well anyway. Columbia housing sent me an e-mail and my first thought was that they wrote the date backward. Oh dear.

I have my show in a week and am therefore in rehearsal a LOT, plus various other projects, including my research, which needs to have an outline by thursday. Eep. Busy and busy and it's the end of March already and what?!

Six months and ?? days: Looking back and looking forward

This post is going to be somewhat introspective -- I apologize in advance if that bores you.

As the title suggests, I've now been in Paris over six months. If I actually stop to think and calculate -- it's been six months and twelve days, or in other words, exactly 195 days. That's not forever, nor is it a short time. In a lifetime, it's nothing, of course, but I consider it a good lifetime anyway.

While I don't do it very often, I have adopted the Parisian habit of having a cigarette and contemplating life -- sometimes just stepping out on the balcony just before the sun goes down and watching the sky change while the cigarette burns away -- it's a very zen moment, shall we say. Well, today I was taking a smoke break; I should have been working, but was instead waiting for my computer to load the latest Glee episode, and was out on the balcony --- and had a moment.

It struck me suddenly how far away Paris used to be to me. I remembered this summer, thinking about how far and exotic Paris was and would be. How stressful the visa process was, and how I used to freak out -- quietly or otherwise -- whenever I thought about how soon I was leaving, and for how long. It just seemed strange to me, in that moment, now so deeply entrenched in the Parisian life -- how far away it used to be.

Sometimes I remember conversations I had before I left and I have to remind myself that they were in English. Yes, it's strange, and I notice it -- I think, no wait, that was in English. That was before I spoke French daily and the vast majority of my conversations were in my natural tongue -- and somehow, that seems really strange to me now. Sometimes even here I have to remind myself that the people talking French to each other are actually talking in their natural language. Invariably, I think about when I'll have to do that, and it always seems strange.

Yesterday I called the toll free number on student universe to officially change my plane ticket from May 31st to August 1st. I got a recording saying that due to the tsunami in Japan their phone services are limited. What Japan has to do with student universe is beyond me, and makes me quite apprehensive for when I actually DO get on the phone with a representative -- somebody, no doubt, in Japan -- but it's no big deal, I can wait. It just seemed like a big step -- official. By the time I leave, it will be eleven full months.

And now? Is Paris far away?

It's far in the sense that I have to calculate somewhere between 6-8 hours of time change if I want to talk to my family or friends. It's far in that it's now been a REALLY long time since I've seen these people, and while with Skype it's like they're just on the other side of the screen, hiding behind your computer -- it's not the same. I had a friend from Columbia in town this weekend and there is nothing like having them there, real and breathing and just taking up space, moving the air. In that way, yes, I suppose it's far.

But these days I can't imagine being anywhere else. It's like sometimes I think about where Paris is on the map and how I'm practically on the other side of the world from where I grew up -- but it doesn't matter anymore. The people I'm surrounded by have been here, for the most part, their whole lives, and so have I. It's like I can't conceptualize the distance between me and where home used to be, but all I know is I'm here and living here is as easy as breathing.

Thank god I wasn't ever tempted to go just for the semester.

One thing about having a time limit -- something I know far, far, far too well -- is that no matter what you're doing, it stays with you. Or at least, it tries to. It's like the more fun you have, you know the harder it will be to leave. And so I suppose I have the choice -- but for me it's not a choice. If I leave my soul behind in Paris, well, then so be it. But it's true that sometimes I have trouble not thinking about it -- about the fact that February absolutely vanished on me and now we're halfway through March and I'm now over half done with my time here. Booking my flight for August 1st means that on August 1st I'll be boarding a giant ass jet with two giant ass suitcases that can't possibly hold my life here. It means that life goes on.

Before I left, I sometimes had the strange thought that the people I know won't recognize me when I come back. Of course that's not true, but recently I've been thinking that, in some ways, it's true. The girl who I was when I left will never come back, because she doesn't exist anymore. The one who's coming back -- well, you'll see. She'll the same person you always knew, but she's nothing like her. It's hard to explain.

I think I've said this before, but sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to build a life somewhere and then finish it --- instead of leaving when the bloom is just on the rose, so to speak. But I guess that's not really fair -- because maybe on August 1st, I will have finished. I will have lived an entire life, and finished it. Or maybe I'll just leave it for a time and come back. How should I know?

In any case, spring is coming and my nose is thanking all the pollen. Construction has begun -- directly over my head -- and the sun is out a noticeable percentage of the time more than it used to be. The wind is doux, and you can feel the world starting to pick up it's winter-weary head and sniff the air. I was here for fall, for winter. Now for spring, and soon -- summer.

A nice full circle. A complete life.

I do seem to go through them.

A Week in Avignon, just for variety's sake

The pictures are up on my photobucket if you care to check them out. The sun was out and it looks warm in the pictures, but it wasn't, because the Mistral blows in from the North and cuts into your bones. It funnels through the ancient, one-car streets with tiny sidewalks if at all, and the old walls. Everything feels like it's been preserved since the Middle Ages, the Palais des papes still as majestic as it might have been, the churches, even the houses, especially the streets. The sun bleaches everything white and colors, the blue sky contrasting sharply with the lines of the buildings. It's beautiful -- I shouldn't have to say that.

What can I tell you about what I was doing there?

In theory: dancing. Well, not just in theory -- I had a class every day for 3 hours. In the evenings, I saw a show and went out for drinks or ate with friends. In the mornings I went exploring, slept in, or had meetings about my research project.

That's the simple version, at least. I found my demons there and had a bit of an incident involving them, then spent the rest of the time finding my way away from them. I went down, then up. I met people, and talked. I went looking for my center, and for dance that means something. The time went so quickly and yet I felt like I was gone for ages. I shared a two bedroom apartment with seven others. I didn't see a lot of dance in the shows I liked. I wondered what the hell I was doing there, and I figured it out. I went out dancing with my friends and my teachers and spent the night listening to swing music in a bar run, from what I gathered, by the Russian mafia, or at least had some connection to Russians and the mafia. I went to a bar where they bring you fries and hot dogs all night. I sat and ate lunch in the Jardin des doms and watched pigeons chase each other around. I was sick all week, though I'm now convinced it was allergies.

My god, it's already the ninth of March. We just started March, right? Or February? Time has entered warp speed. It's almost spring, right? I can't say I'll be sorry to say goodbye to winter. Gray skies-- I've had enough. Bring on the sun, the warmth, the gold bathing the streets. In five weeks it'll be spring break. I've been here six months and a couple weeks.

One of these days I'll learn how to build lives and then stay in them, instead of leaving them while they're still pulsing and creating.

Or maybe I'll just keep on creating new ones, passing from one to another, keeping what I can from the old -- but that's the tricky part,  of course.

I'm sorry for the randomness of this post -- my head is a little everywhere right now. The sky outside my window is looking dangerously like rain and it's not been the best of days. I'm not en forme, as they'd say in French. Hey, it happens. I've been exhausted ever since I got home from Avignon -- I didn't sleep a ton when I was there, and neither over the weekend. Since the high school was on academic holiday for two weeks before I left, it was essentially three weeks of vacation --- and now it all restarts, with interest. Rehearsals on saturdays for my show in April, a research project, another project with my sister, various odds and ends. It looks like more than it is, I'm sure.

...Yeah that's all I have for now. I will attempt to update when I know where my own head is.

A Day in the Life, Thursday 24 Fèvrier

Wednesday hadn't been a good day. It had started with a couple of gypsy girls ambushing me at the ATM, pressing buttons, changing the amount I was requesting, and generally trying to distract me long enough to get the cash and my card and run. I yowled and thankfully there was a guy nearby who came over to chase them away -- they had demanded 300 euros, which surprisingly enough I don't have in my account at the moment, so finally in peace I got my 30 euros and went on my way, somewhat upset and shocked. The rest of the day wasn't bad, so to speak, just not great, and a few personal demons decided to show up and grab me around the throat...

Put it this way, Thursday morning wasn't particularly welcome. My alarm went off at 9am, not very early, I know. But oh lovely, the nose is stuffed up and it's gray AGAIN, this is going to be good...

But no matter what my state of mind, there is one thing that will always get me out of bed and on the metro, which is a dance class. So I dragged myself up and headed out to have some breakfast. Colette was eating at the same time and we chatted for awhile over coffee, until I realized I needed to go and put the car in gear.

I was just feeling scattered -- my mind and body tend to be really connected and the mini-breakdown of the night before was scattering my energy all over the place. Gray again, I was tired, slightly sick, and muttered various French curses on my way down the stairs.

On the metro, there was a cheerful guy with an accordion, speaking french with a heavy Arab accent and smiling. He played several bouncy tunes. I gave him a euro. It seemed a small price to pay for making me smile.

I wish I could say that I had an amazing ballet class and everything was better afterward, because that would make a good story. Only it's not true: I was off my balance the whole class, still outside of my body, and it was only the last combination of an hour and a half long class that I finally felt like I was centered. Better late than never, I guess. I felt slightly better but still frustrated as I headed back to the metro. The bums on the sidewalk all call out, "belle madamoiselle, une cigarette?" They all want cigarettes...no, I'm not interested. I ignored them all. Just easier that way, even though bumming cigarettes seems to be a national pastime.

I dropped by Reid Hall briefly to print a few things out, had a fight with the printer, and then walked home. I had lunch with Colette - the avocado I'd bought earlier in the week was absolutely perfect, the Maroccan strawberries that had been on sale were juicy and red and beautiful and really good with yogurt. Plus a "tradition", which is if possible better than a baguette, and life started to look up. Colette made some coffee and I had it with a chocolate eclair.

After all this activity, I was exhausted, and lay down for a little cat nap, which I have perfected. I slept 30/40 minutes, then kibitzed about the internet until 18h45 (6:45PM in other words)...then back on the metro.

Line 4 to Chatelet, line 1 to Franklin D Roosevelt, line 9 to Alma Marceau, where I met a friend and headed off to the Palais de Tokyo. Her idea -- apparently it has really nothing to do with Tokyo and is instead for contemporary art. Go figure.

When we got there, there were a bunch of people standing around in the lobby, as though waiting for something. Heartily confused, my friend and I bought tickets (1 euro each, not bad!), then asked the lady what was going on.

She pointed to a black box plopped in the middle of the lobby, roughly 6' X 6' X 6'. She said that there was a metal band inside, and in about five minutes they were going to open the door and reveal them.

Oh really?! We went over to the box and put our ears against it. Yep, you could hear vague pounding, but that was it. Right about then, the sound exploded as the guard swung open the front door, and sure enough! There was a metal band squashed inside. Four of them: drums, a bass, guitar, and a vocalist screaming into a microphone. Strange.

After that we actually went to the exhibit, which was even stranger. It was  in the basement, in this enormous warehouse space, bare industrial walls and no lights -- the light came from the huge video projections on the wall. It was an exhibit about Amos Gitai and his father -- the films were all creations of Amos, often about his father's story. The projections really were enormous, and the sound from them was all mixed together and jumbled until you were right in front and then the one you were looking at took precedence. It was interesting -- though bizarre.

Back on the metro after that -- 9 to the 1 to the B, though I suggested the 4. I would have been right because the B was delayed, but there you go. We got off at St Michel and met another friend. Elena and I were hungry and grabbed a bucket of fries from nearby, then we headed off to a nearby bar, called The Gentleman, which is really nice. It was busy -- there was a soccer match on. However, we found a little table and crowded around it with a pint.

At the end of the first pint, Elena's boyfriend and a friend joined us and so the second pint came around, plus two more chairs around the tiny table. Five of us now, we spent another hour chattering. Although they could tell immediately that I wasn't French -- my accent gives it away, even though I speak really well -- the new additions didn't have any problem talking extremely quickly, and with the noise of the bar I really had to concentrate. However, I understood almost everything, which I was really happy about. I'd say I'm doing well if I can understand rapid fire French in a busy bar. (My accent, by the way, gets better with a little alcohol. Or at least, I talk quicker. They say you lose the editor...it's true).

We headed out a little past 11 and I went home and went to bed fairly soon after, but much happier and much more together. That is a fairly typical day at the end of the week, though usually I'm teaching. I move a lot -- I'm out about in Paris often, often with friends, always on the metro...and I love it.

However, I would be much happier if the sun would come out. Just for a little.

Not Staying Inside: Free time in Paris

I would like to tell you what I've done for the past two weeks. That's kind of why I made the blog in the first place.

Here are my excuses for not updating:

1) The weather sucks. What exactly this has to do with my lack of writing, I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's related. It's gray and cold and occasionally, whenever I don't have my umbrella, it spits rain. When I don't, it's just kind of gray. Once in awhile the sun comes out for a morning, just to tease me. I disagree.

2) J'ai trop la flemme, and if I spelled that right I will be shocked. Either way, I've just had NO ambition to do anything that involves writing. Today, thanks to the weather, I had to force myself to go to ballet. But dance I can handle. But stuff like sending e-mails I keep forgetting to, you know that fun stuff, j'ai aucune envie, I just don't want to. I know, whine whine.

3) I keep going out. That is, I've been out almost too much if possible, especially this weekend. For various reasons I didn't sleep in my own bed very much this weekend, was either too far from home or out with girlfriends and it's often easier to just sleep over. I have a lot of free time right now because my students are all on vacation and off somewhere in the Alps skiing (screw them) for the February vaca that happens in French high/middle schools, so I've been taking care to keep myself occupied. Whether that's walking, drinking coffee with friends, meeting friends for lunch (sushi), taking extra dance classes, seeing movies (Les femmes au sixième étage, Black Swan), seeing exhibits (Paris: Avant Après 1860-2011, Louvre: Les appartements de Napoléon III, le code d'Hammurabi) during the day, and then at night having dinner with friends (une raclette, house warming party), out at a concert (Pont Ephémere), meeting someone for a drink, etc, it makes for a busy schedule and not a lot of sleep. It's way too much fun, actually.

Well, yeah, so the third reason is what I've been up to. In a nutshell. All over the place, now that I think about it.

Obvious piece of news: The Louvre is HUGE. They say you can walk around for two straight years and not see everything. This seems unbelievable to me, but it is still giant. 

Cool thing that happened: On Tuesday, I was in a café with my friend Julia when the skies opened and then the sun came out,making an incredibly bright rainbow practically just outside the window.

I don't know why I'm telling you this piece of news:  I met a French guy. Well, yes, I've met several, but I think you know what I mean. We've only seen each other twice, mais que j'ai craqué pour lui ("de craquer pour" somebody means that you get one of those giddy twirling kind of crushes on them. Voilà.)

La vie est belle, what else can I say? I'll try and update more.

Complaining Suddenly Irrelevant: It's already February

So I spend all my time whining about how I don't like January and February, and then they do me the disservice of making me look like an idiot and whipping on by. At least the last couple weeks -- suddenly it's February 8th and the worst month of the year is 1/4 over.

I suppose it may be because I have been absolutely determined not to let the blues get me down -- I am in Paris, and thus do not consider it legitimate to mope about for two months. I've been pretty careful to keep my head in a good place and catch it whenever it gets off on one of its "I hate this time of year" rants.

It helps that the sun is coming out.

My host mom says  that it's normal to have the first signs of Spring now, which, as a Colorado native growing up at 8200 feet above sea level and thus having spring sometime in late May, this is utterly bizarre to me. It seems far too early to even consider spring, but I sure hope she's right. Warmer weather and sunshine would be a-okay with me.

Of course, thanks to the temperature changes I have a lovely head cold and am somewhat in pain at the moment, but there you go. I'm still in Paris, and what's more....

I'm staying here until the end of July.

Yes you heard right. I asked a friend and got an offer to share an apartment for the summer, which means that my dream of celebrating my birthday in Paris and generally getting to see Paris in the summer is coming true. I'm going to work on finding a job, doing what I don't know yet, but we'll see. The point is, I'm here for the summer. I leave in August because there are people that I must see before I go back to New York in the fall, and I think I've gotten to the point where I know it will be the perfect time here and the perfect time to leave. Of course, I may always come back -- but that's too far away. As I've been learning to do this year -- sort of forced to learn -- I'm trying to live inside now.

One other big piece of news for the week is that this past saturday, thanks to Anne, I presented a solo - my own choreography - at a gala benefiting an association called 'Virades de l'espoir" and fights against a rare genetic respiratory disorder. It was a trip -- and I mean that in a couple different ways. The venue was in St Rèmy les Chevreuse, about an hour away on the RER train, so it's not really "à côté" as they say here, aka nearby. Also because my solo was about as different to the choreography of every other group there as Santa is to the Grinch BEFORE the Who's start singing. The other groups were all large in number, used music with a heavy dance electronic kind of beat, was just endless sharp movement, all performed facing the audience. There were a couple pieces that were the most formulaic pieces of dance I think I have ever seen.

To be fair, there was one piece that was really, really well done -- it was a mix of African and hip hop, and while I can't figure out what it was about it that made it so good, it had a emotional content, an intensity, and was just really well put together and staged.

However, I have to say that I felt pretty out of place -- my solo was really good, don't get me wrong, it's been worked on so much, but it's just a more subtle kind of dance that plays with energy and tension and suspension and release, and isn't the bang bang crowd pleasing kind of thing that was all over the place otherwise. I was pretty nervous -- it's been a LONG time since I danced a solo and it was my debut as a choreographer as well. It went well, I suppose, but there was just something kind of lacking...a kind of connection with the audience that is really important for me. It was just like, I danced, people clapped, and that was it -- but not the life-sparking, intoxicating connection that happened the other night at the Elysée Montmartre.

But there you have it, it was cool in any case.

So in general, what am I doing these days?

I'm teaching -- a lot. Three days a week I'm at the high school, one day I have private lessons. On the one day I'm not teaching English, I'm helping my dance prof at Paris 7 teach a class called "danse création". At the high school, I've ditched the idea of just bringing in a subject and talking about it -- that just doesn't work at all. Instead, we've been having debates, or, more popular, doing some roleplay. I write a scenario on a slip of paper and they imagine a conversation or sketch based on it. It's been remarkably popular, though some scenes work better than others.

As for my class at Paris 7, it's been remarkably helpful. It's sometimes incredibly overwhelming -- my teacher (also my mentor and coach) Anne often lets me lead exercises or parts of the class and will give me tips here and there. With the combination of watching the students closely, figuring out how to structure the class, and trying to give instructions and corrections in a language that still isn't perfectly familiar to me, it's exhausting!!

When I'm not teaching, I'm either on the metro or in dance class myself. I take three dance classes a week, two ballet and one contemporary. It's not enough, but it's what I can do right now. I'd have to pay for the next one myself and money's just a little tight at the moment, especially trying to plan ahead. I also still have my choreography workshop in addition. Soon I'll be adding on a directed research project, which rounds out the course list.

Yeah, I spend an incredible amount of time on the metro. While it's really cool -- it sure repeatedly ejects me from my bubble -- it does get tiring sometimes. Ah well -- can I really complain?

As the title of this post suggests, no. I can't.

In the time in between all that, I go out for drinks, for dinner. I meet friends, see films, have bitter espressos and amazing French food, eat bread. I go to soirées, I dance some more.

La vie est toujours belle. 

Wanted, Sunshine: Waiting for January to be over

To my knowledge, I have never liked January.

It is a little known fact that January is the longest month of the year. And once it is finally finished, the same day repeats 28 times. Of this I am firmly convinced and will not hear otherwise -- no matter what the days look like, February is the same day. Just repeated.

Also to my knowledge, these two particular months, especially February, are not kind to me. There is always some miniature disaster, but mostly just the little things bug the crap out of me.

And yes, I do believe these two phenomenon are related; clearly, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I expect the first two months of the year to be shitty and thus pick out everything that is, leading myself further into the belief that they are shitty. A vicious cycle, you might say.

Well, hey, this year I am in Paris, and I can't afford to mope away two whole months, despite my inherent mistrust of them. It's just that the days

d
r
a
g
.

And it's gray, ugly, spitting rain and cold, and did I mention gray gray gray and uhhhggggglieee.*

*like the way I just wrote ugly.

What hey. I want the sunshine. I was born and bred in Colorado and the western sun good and soaked into my DNA and everywhere I go, I miss it. New York, now Paris. I don't know if I will end up living in Colorado but wherever I am I take the endless blue skies of the west with me and I firmly believe that I'm just more alive when the sun is shining.

That said, it doesn't do so very much in Paris.

Au contraire.

I've been missing it dearly this week, missing the sun. But I've been working hard not to get too complacent and whiny because my time in Paris is limited and I know it. I pay cher in euros but also in time.

(I've noticed these days that no matter how much I dance, it isn't enough. I always thought I should stop moving sometimes, but I realize that I'm just a restless person and I need to be moving, dancing walking, and so these days, especially these days, I try not to sit around too much. I need to do less of that, even still...)

This sunday was one of those patented January days. Not terribly cold at least, but spitting rain, windy. Turns your cheeks red and batters little drops of water against your face. But I couldn't stay inside, it would drive me crazy to sit and stare at the gray sky outside my window...

So I decided to take a walk. Not really knowing where I was going, I turned down a street I'd never been down before. Wandered along, looking at the shops, slowly. A pale, unhealthy sun was trying to poke through and in a few minutes of glory, succeeded, right about the time I found a random tiny little park, with tall green hedges and benches for one people, while a mother and her little girl kicked around a ball. I didn't stay long, but paused for a minute and smelled the green, this wonderful little oasis....

Then moved on. The street took me to another that I knew, the Avenue du Maine, wide and busy. I walked along, noticing my shadow walking alone on the sidewalk, the still pale, quickly vanishing sun. I was heading towards the Tour Montparnasse, I thought, and I knew where I was going.

Le Chien Qui Fume, a well known café run by the friends of my host mom, a place I now frequent. Cute, small, the regulars at the bar. People come in one and twos, meeting friends or reading books. They know me, say hello and a kiss on both cheeks.

I ordered a café express, and then was asked if I wanted a croissant or a pain au chocolat. I hadn't thought of it, but the waitress told me it was the best croissant in Paris, so I agreed finally.

She didn't lie. It was the best croissant I've ever had. With a half package of sugar the express is just bitter enough to make you awake, and I drank it slowly, reading some old bits of writing from the past year, things I keep in my "book of souls", which is not really a journal but acts like one sometimes. The colors of the café, though not garish, were bright enough to contrast sharply against the gray world outside, and the people outside bustled along with their heads down. I watched them, and ate my croissant.

I decided to walk home -- I could have easily taken the bus, but wanted to do something with my life and my energy.

But I didn't want to leave the café -- somehow it seemed like the only thing real. In my mind, I remember it being the only thing that wasn't black and white that day.

I think the moral of the story is that I need to spend my time in Oz these months -- stay away from the black and white of the outside, eat good food, drink coffee, and move. Without the sun, those are the things that keep me alive.

An Evening in Montmartre: The View from Center Stage

It seems like more than a week since I've last updated -- I feel like it's been a long time but not that much has really happened. I'm currently caught in the throes of the January blues. I hate, I repeat, I hate this time of the year. I'm convinced that January is the longest month of the year, and just when you think it's over, the same day repeats 28 times. Not to mention it's just kind of gray and cold all the time. Paris allowed me a glance of sunshine Sunday and it just made me miss the sun more.

I've been feeling kind of stuck lately anyway, for no particular reason. I had a fight with the voices in my head on Monday (should I have admitted that?) because the one in particular was not being sympathetic to my plight. Let's just call it the voice of my conscience, shall we? In any case, I was complaining about not going anywhere, and it was like, no, you aren't, the subway is stopped right now. Not helpful, thanks very much dude. However, he has a point -- I'm not really going anywhere right now. My work is to be here, right now. It's not that easy, but I'm working on it.

I actually think I'm not dancing enough -- though it occurred to me today that no matter how much I dance, it's not enough. I had 7 straight hours on Monday and though I was exhausted afterwards, I was ready to go again Tuesday. Of course it comes down to a question of money -- something a little iffy at the present moment, for various reasons. It has to do with transfers.

I will get to the title in a minute, but for a second I'd like to tell a little anecdote. In my ballet class on Monday, my teacher was explaining something and getting on everyone for muscling through everyone. That's not dancing according to him, because anyone can make their body do something with enough training.  But anyway, he was talking about wanting to dance, and he said, for me it was never a choice. Everyone says you always have a choice, and of course some people in the class just take it for leisure and work other jobs, but he said, for me I never had the choice, I had to dance.

When he said, I thought, yes. I understood completely. I've been saying for awhile, and I completed identified with him. I don't have a choice. If I had a choice, I'd probably do something different -- the dancer's life is difficult, often uncertain, and taxing. I don't have the years of technique some do. I'm behind on my training. But I mean it when I say I don't have a choice. I can't do anything different. So the only thing I have left is to make it work, somehow.

Cut to Friday night. I was at the Elysée Montmartre, a nightclub in Montmartre, one of the old cabarets. These days it's just a giant room, with two bars surrounded by people shoving for their drinks, and two coat checks that are even more insane. On the night I was there, it was a special "We are the 90's" soirée -- only 90's music! - and was absolutely packed. 

Oh great, I thought. I hate clubs like that -- you can't move, it's too hot, the floor sticks, and all you can do is just kind of bop around a bit. Until 5 in the morning? Mmm, not so sure about that.

Then my friend decided to make it her mission in life to get on the stage at one end of the room, where the DJ was and a few VIPs who were bumping and grinding to the delight of the onlookers. So off we went, and she flirted shamelessly with a few people and got us on for about twenty seconds before we were kicked off.

"Come back at four," the guard told us.

4:05, we were back. By this time we were pretty good friends with the dude, and so he went off and talked to someone, and up we went.

Hey, look, room to dance. I don't remember if I had the idea first or if my body just did it -- both are possible, but I decided, hey. I'm a better dancer than anyone up here. I'm classically trained, but I can work it. I learned a bit about showboating from someone this summer and added it into my repertory. So I thought, fine. Let's see what I can do.

Give me about twenty minutes, during which I got warmed up and starting attracting attention -- my friend decided it was too hot and headed off, but I stayed -- and let me put it this way: by the time I was two, probably earlier, I already loved being the center of attention. That's just who I am. Performing. I tell you, I don't have a choice.

The point is, I got myself center stage. I had fans. At one point, I had everyone on the stage around me in a semi-circle clapping. I had people filming me with their cell phones. I had the attention, that is to say, of pretty much the entire club.

I can't tell you how amazing it felt. I've been busy spending my last semester questioning my ability to be a dancer, to join a company, technically, etc. I spend all my time wondering, and I had a hint on Friday night. Not to mention the last time I was on a stage at a nightclub, I was being upstaged by the guy I was with at the time, and while I was happy to let him have the attention at the time, this time there was nobody upstaging me. The stage was mine, and I can tell you, the vindication was pretty sweet.

The view from up there? It was a whole lot of flashing lights, heat and sweat, heads, faces and smiles, hands and arms. The beat, just the beat, the music, and sometimes the strobes blocked my view, so all there was was the music, pounding in my soul, making me move, the kind of deep, fierce joy that makes me smile like a "folle".

No, I don't have a choice. I'm just more alive when I'm dancing. It can't be helped.

The view?

It was good.

Paris vs. New York: A layman's view

Hey, look at that, TWO posts in one day!! Let me put it this way: being just sick enough to stay at home and not quite too sick to be flat on your back (like yesterday) has its way of being impossible boring. And so since childish computer games can only hold their appeal for so long, I thought of this subject and thought I'd write a bit.

(Disclaimer: I have an Inner Poet. Thank you).

Paris and New York are particularly related to me -- two cities I have up and moved to for school, not knowing really anyone, the surrounding geography, or street names. It happens sometimes (surprisingly often in my life, actually). However, I'm not the only one. A lot of Parisians apparently love New York, and often go to live there. I did not know this, but you can speak only French and mostly get by in New York. Go figure. They say it's the most European city in the US -- I'm not exactly sure why, but I suppose it works.

The thing is, though, is that while they are linked psychologically, they are nothing alike. As far as their characters -- yes, they move a lot, yes they are big cities and thus have more in common than, say, Cheyenne Wyoming and Los Angeles might -- they are -- well. Nothing alike.

I knew that was the case from the beginning but could never quite put my finger on it, besides the obvious (HINT: it has to do with a thousand years or two of history, but I saw it the other day when Darcy and I went up the Tour Montparnasse and looked at Paris from way up high.

Here's something you need to know about New York: Seen from up high, especially at night, New York is impossibly beautiful. It makes sense from up there -- the grids, the lights, the sky scrapers jostling for a position in the skyline, the endless, twinkling lights lights lights, and you just can't hear the madness from up here. All the cars, or most of them, are yellow, and everything could be glamorous.

The truth is, bluntly, is that Paris just doesn't make sense from above. There is no rhyme or reason, and from above it just makes things confusing. The buildings, from the most part, look alike, and there is no street pattern -- they wind around each other in no particular order, spitting out onto the occasional grand boulevard. Here and there, the great monuments pop up, the space around them strangely and bizarrely empty, as though they have warning fences around them. Do Not Touch, it seems to say. Historically Important.

No, from above, the character of Paris is wiped out-- because it's here, on the streets, below the buildings. Only from here you can see the differences, the different types of balconies. Only from here can you see what's hiding under the eaves of the boutiques of the Rez-des-chaussées. The boulangeries, épiceries, patisseries, brasseries, cafés...you can't see it from above, but that's where Paris lives. On the streets, in the cafés. The conversations, the people, the cigarette butts scattered everywhere. The motorcycles taking never before seen traffic liberties.

Because the thing is, history is taken for granted here, even as people cling desperately to it. No monuments must be changed. If it's historical, it must be preserved. The boulangerie that you go to everyday has always been there and probably will be.

In many ways, Paris has become, I think, a museum city, sometimes cold and unchanging like the somber austerity of the Pantheon, which for being the home of the great men, feels numb to me. The city is filled with museums of course but the city itself is a museum.

In contrast, New York is new. It breathes. It changes. Of course, it lives through its street vendors and taxi drivers and the bum you always see on the corner, but the thing about New York is that all of things build up to this bigger entity, almost, that has no real faces but everyone knows what it looks like. From above, it makes sense. Paris is only made up of what it is.

Of course I couldn't tell you which one I prefer. I think I've mentioned that I fell into living in Paris as easily as breathing, while in New York, I just loved it. Two different characters for two different cities, and if I could tell you which one or either may find me in the years to come, I would be a rich psychic.

Bisous à tous.

No Such Thing as a Coffee To Go: Holidays in Paris

I present two situations of surreality:

December 24th: Christmas Eve. In a black dress, heels, in a huge, beautiful Parisian apartment in the 16th arrondissement, surrounded by fifteen excitable French people, for the most part all much older than me and dressed to the nines, talking loudly and quickly, as families do when they're together. Eating foie gras, oysters, shrimp, cuchon au lait, potatoes, bûches du noël, chocolate, and endless glasses of champagne. Everything decorated white, the tree, a huge mound of presents underneath . At the beginning of the evening, I knew exactly two people. By the end, everyone kissed me on the cheeks to say goodbye, said they hoped to see me soon.

This was my Christmas Eve, and it was surreal because it just seemed so far away from anything I've ever done before. The first Christmas away from home, in someone else's home, but not only that, in Paris. It struck me as somehow remarkably significant, to be celebrating like this.I stumbled home at 3 in the morning that night, drunk off champagne, and collapsed into bed -- only to wake up the next morning and, three hours later, restart the whole process with my host mom and her family.

The second moment of surreality:

December 31st, or really January 1st if you want to get technical. Another apartment in the 16th. Low lights. Young people this time, though equally unknown. My sister as well, by my side. We'd just noticed it was midnight.

"Bonne année!!" everyone yelled, turning to everyone else and kissing them on both cheeks, unless they were a couple and then on the mouth. Everyone hugging, music pounding in the background, to which we spent the next two hours dancing too. Wearing heels, of course, and something fashionable. Chatting with a new friend, who was trying to speak English for Darcy's benefit.

It was another moment, that I looked around and thought, wow, is this really my life? I thought, this is the first time I'm celebrating the New Year's in Paris. I thought, my year is starting in Paris. I loved thinking it, and had the strange feeling that though it was the first, it won't be the last.

For the past week, my sister has been in town, and it's been a ton of fun. We go out every day and see something new -- some things I've been to already, but also some new things. We went to the Musée d'Orsay, for example, which was really fun, and the displays at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the Ferris Wheel at the Place de la Concorde. We went back to Montmartre today -- I love Montmartre. I wish it was closer to me. Went up the Tour Montparnasse because everyone and their brother was at the Eiffel Tower. We also went to the Musée de Quai Branly and found one of the best exhibits I have ever seen in any museum.

It was called "La Fabrique des Images" and was essentially using archeological objects - like masks, tribal statues -- and art -- paintings, sculptures -- to present four different world views of the interaction between man and nature, specifically animals. The world views themselves were incredibly interesting, but what I loved about the exhibit was that it forced you to think. We started going through it without really thinking -- we were both exhausted - but about halfway through I cottoned on to the fact that there was more to it besides the objects, and we restarted and paid attention this time. Most exhibits -- in fact, all of them -- present something and just require that you look at it and go, oh hey, cool. They show something. This one synthesized. It had a connection. It had relevance. It didn't just present something, it was an intellectual exercise. It was incredibly well put together, and if you are around and have time to go there, do.

I've spent the past two weeks pretty much eating straight through. We had a super good dinner on Thursday night, where for 33 euros you got an aperitif, entrée, plat, cheese, dessert, and a café. Oh yeah, and a half bottle of wine apiece. It was really good, too, and was made more amusing by the fact that the waiter and the two elderly gentlemen on either side of us were all flirting with me at some point in the evening. The waiter was at least quite charming about it -- he asked if all the girls in New York (he had previously asked me where I was from) were as pretty as me.

Tomorrow Darcy leaves at the crack of dawn and everything goes back to normal. I start teaching again, and my choreography workshop restarts. I'll probably start dancing again as well, so there you go. I need to start eating better and cheaper as well, because I have spent SO MUCH money on food this past week. It's been really nice to have Darcy here, though I can't deny I will enjoy having my room back to myself, and though it's kind of silly, I'm also looking forward to conducting all my daily business in French again. She doesn't speak French, so I've been mostly talking in English, and I miss my French!!

It's also just been really interesting to hear her questions -- she has never been to Paris before, and so she often asks things or make observations that I realize are normal for an American -- but it's been four months since I was in America, and they occasionally seem bizarre to me. I think today was the most telling -- we were in Montmartre. I had just gotten some cash from the ATM and was looking for a café. "Why don't we go up to that coffee to go place I saw up there?" she asked, and I looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head.

"What would be the point?"

She's remarked a couple times there doesn't seem to be the concept of coffee to go, and when she asked that, I realized that I have completely bought into that idea. In New York, all the time, I bought a coffee and walked off with it, going to the next place, the next class. And now -- I honestly do not see the point. It seems so random. If you are going to get a coffee, you have to sit down in a café and drink it. Coffee to go is utterly absurd. I mean, I know the point is to wake up, technically, but still.

She also pointed to the boulangerie and asked if they might sell coffee in there, and the idea seemed absurd again to me. No, I said, the boulangerie sells baked goods and pastries, and that's it. The idea of the "coffee shop" with pastries and coffee drinks just doesn't compute anymore. It is extremely interesting to note how I think about things these days!!!

And so life goes on. 2010 is over: it was probably one of the most intense years of growth I have ever had. I had everything to gain and I did --- then I had everything to lose, and I did. I got lost, found, and love more fiercely than I ever have. 2011 has begun, the first year of my life in which my only goal has been to not make plans. I can tell you what is most likely to happen, but I refuse to set anything in stone, or even think about it. My life has been reduced to a few basic truths: I love where I am. I dance. I live. As far as anything else, tomorrow, next week, next month, I have no idea.

Bisous à tous, bonne année à vous!!!

A Chalet and Rain: Something's Wrong There

One would think, or at least hope, that if one spent time in a chalet in the mountains next to a ski resort, it would snow.

There was certainly plenty OF snow -- being everywhere -- but I am not kidding when I say it rained almost constantly Monday and Tuesday, the days during which I was there. Being out in the snow while it is raining is not the most pleasant experience in the world. Nevertheless, Monday afternoon, I decided it was necessary.

The reason it was necessary was this: I was at the chalet with a new French friend, who extremely kindly invited me to join her family there for a few days. The thing is, she has a younger brother and a younger sister, plus in the group was a little cousin, and the three of them would NOT stop arguing. More than that, the little cousin somehow managed to get chicken pox and would not stop crying. In a very small chalet, with no real room to escape, I can assure you that the noise, along with the sniping, was getting on my nerves -- I was always polite about it, I'll have you know, and so I suggested to my friend, Margaux, that we disappear.

So we went for a walk, that took us up and around, down into the snow to make angels, here and there, to a lake but not on it, as the ice was a little mushy from the rain, a random tiny church that is only open on tuesdays in July and August -- go figure -- and then finally back to the chalet. We were completely soaked by that time, but at least it was nice to get out for awhile. We needed it for that night, I can tell you that.

The next day was better, because mostly we weren't in the chalet. The morning we made snowmen and I endeavored to make the perfect snowman and then decorated it with only natural things, like sticks and pine branches etc. Of course it started raining less than an hour afterwards, so there you go. It's probably all gone now. In the afternoon we went sledding, which was great fun, if not extremely wet, because it was raining quite hard by then and didn't stop all afternoon.

The little cousin was getting better and the kids had all decided I was the cat's pajamas, so I somehow ended up entertaining all of them before dinner. I think the easiest way to get them to stop fighting -- though they tried often to restart -- is to just tell them it's not that serious. They kept sniping over the paper airplanes I'd made, and I just said, it's just an airplane, forget it. I never took anyone's side, so naturally they all assumed I was on their side. Works like a charm.

One thing always good, though, was the food. I ate for about four straight days -- breakfast of bread and crepes, full lunches, three course dinners, a hell of a lot of chocolate, cheese, some roasted chestnuts, you name it we had it. It was wonderful.

Wednesday we headed to Strasbourg, which was great fun. In the morning we actually made a stop to the pasta production factory where Margaux's dad works and took a tour -- got to see the whole process from start to finish, which was actually really, really cool. Then on to Strasbourg, which is a beautiful little city. Old, especially Petit France. I get the sense that it sleeps all year long and comes alive for the holidays, especially at night.

As it gets dark, the lights turn on -- and there are lights everywhere. Windows, streets, the little huts selling trinkets, ornaments, food, whatever it is. There is vin chaud and hot chocolate everywhere, gingerbread and bretzels, people -- essentially, Christmas. The town lives for this time of year, and I get the feeling that they're proud of it.

The cathedral, by the way, is utterly spectacular. Huge, gothic, built with the reddish stone of the countryside, it's extremely impressing. Inside tapestries are hung everywhere, there is a huge astrological clock, and of course a nativity scene. It was fairly dark, but still beautiful.

All in all, it was a great change of pace for me, and I'm very happy I went, even with all the sniping and crying ( which, to be fair, got better after Monday). I'm back in Paris now for the holidays and spent about four hours today at the coiffeur getting my hair done -- it was expensive, but I'm happy to report that after years of wanting it, I am now platinum blonde. Yahoo.

Bisous à tous.

Back to the fun stuff: The soirées in Paris

That's right, I am stepping off my soapbox and getting back to what you really want to read about, which is life in Paris and not my pontifications about learning. So I am obliging.

A small anecdote before we begin: In other words, I complain and mutter. This morning I dragged my ass out of bed at 6 in the morning after my alarm clock went off at 4. It has this terribly chivalrous habit of, if I set it earlier than the previous morning, going off two hours before it's set. i.e., four when I wanted six. I lay there, as I always do, waiting until I can keep my eyes open for five full seconds before I get out of bed, and then thought to check the time. Yep, that's what I thought. I muttered a bit and went back to sleep. Then this morning I had to venture out into the minus four degree weather, although I am, thankfully, speaking in terms of celsius. Either way, not particularly amusing. Then I get to the high school and my students never show up. I could still be in bed. Argh.

In any case. There is a difference, so far as I can tell, between a 'soirée' and just a regular old 'rendez-vous pour prendre une verre' (to meet up for a glass, literally). When somebody says 'soirée', they mean business.

Such as the one I was very kindly invited to on saturday night by my new french friends. It took place on a péniche, in other words a boat, au bord de la Seine, just along the Seine. There are a lot of them, docked just on the side but still on the water. They have restaurants, bars, dance floors, whatever you want. Two or three floors, one being a terrace, though even with their small heaters, there wasn't much going on up there saturday night. Just too damn cold.

Soirées also start very late - 22h30 or after, and most people arrive late. I was on time because I had no idea how long it would take me to get there, but was one of the few. The reason it starts so late is because people have dinner beforehand, and French meals last a long time. When I got there they were just thinking about bringing out the cheese course.

After dinner was finally over, the tables were removed and the band came on. Not rock, really, but dance kind of music. They only sang in English. I have no idea why. I recognized a lot of songs. In any case, with everyone arriving and heading for the bar - champagne, alcool fort (hard liquor), wine, whatever you wanted it was there.

I can't say too much else fascinating about except that you must have to picture this: Notre-Dame is right behind you, the lights of Paris reflecting on the Seine. You dance and drink all night long, and when the boat closes at five a.m. you stumble off for breakfast and then head home, collapsing into bed at seven with the world still spinning madly.

Yeah, it was fun.

But equally as fun is another option, which doesn't last all night, but maybe just a couple hours. This one is much more simple. Find a café after dinner - make sure it's a café and not a restaurant - and sit down with a couple friends (small groups only). Order some cocktails. Smoke, if you care to, puff if you want, mostly it's about the ambience. Either way, the point is to sit down and not go anywhere for about two hours. A couple rounds is plenty to be pleasantly tipsy.

I was out Monday night - yes, I know, monday, but it worked for all of us - with my best friends in the program. we're all americans, but speak in a combination of french and english. We spent over two hours, starting with wine for them and a margarita for me, then cointreaupolitans all around for the next round. This wasn't intellectual. We weren't discussing the secrets of the universe. We were just goofing around, being, for awhile, young. I can tell you that I don't do that very often, and certainly not enough.

So there you go. Cafés, boats, the wonderful thing is that I'm in Paris with great people, and for those moments I don't have to be going anywhere or accomplishing anything. I just have to be where I am, right then.

And, like before, I don't do that often and not nearly enough.

When did we forget how to learn? A Pontification

Yes, I know, the title is a bit pretentious, but I wanted to write about this in light of a thought I had yesterday upon receiving the grade for the midterm in my Paris in Context class. It was a commentaire du texte, and after we got them back, the professor went over the text to talk about what we should have looked at and etc.

What the article was about is kind of unimportant, but for your information it was about the Panthéon and the funeral procession of Voltaire, which was essentially a revolutionary party. Again; the subject is not the important bit but just for the context. In any case, something very interesting happened during our discussion - the class staged a silent mutiny.

Here's how it went down: The professor, in the course of the discussion, mentioned some things that we really should have known, like the fact that the monarchy was still in place in 1791 so therefore obviously place Louis XV wasn't yet place de la république; Voltaire was a playwrite as well (something I did't actually know) and so obviously the procession stopped at the Opéra and théâtre de l'Odéon; the 'Franklin' alluded to was obviously Benjamin Franklin and thus every American should know that he was extremely influential to the French revolution.

I admit: it is frustrating to hear someone tell you that any fool could have guessed these things that you honestly didn't know and thus couldn't write about at the time. However, I heard, very clearly though it was not spoken out loud, everyone in the room thinking, well, I did't know I was supposed to do that, well, I didn't know that, how could I have known, how could you dare expect me to know that. Suddenly, everyone in the room was completely on the defense, and had completely discounted everything else the professor was saying. I couldn't have known. You didn't tell me that.

Now: I am not saying this isn't valid. Yes, it's frustrating. However, what struck me the most was that suddenly the point had absolutely nothing to do with learning. The only thing that was important was getting it right, and upon not doing so, there was a mutiny. You didn't tell us how to get it right. Therefore, I have every reason to be upset, and to tune you out.

This all struck me as I was walking home. Does anyone really care about learning anymore? or do they just care about getting it right? It occured to me that this doesn't just happen in schools: take a look at Congress, for example. As far as I can tell, absolutely nobody gives a shit about learning. All they care about is being right, and if the other side doesn't agree, well that's their problem because being right is the only option.

Hang on a second. Just as I said last week, I think we can do better than that. No, I did not know that the monarchy was still technically in place in 1791. No, I did not realize that I had to specifically acknowledge the inclusion of Franklin. But now I do. If I wrote the paper again, I would do those things. Next text I may mook more specifically. I'm not trying to be condescending or put myself on a ladder. I felt just as stupid as everyone else. But I just think the point is not to be right. It's to learn. Isn't that what school is about?

At what point did it become okay to not learn, and to only be right?

French teenagers talk about school

Well, at least, I try to make them talk about it - in English. My current job, as assistant English professor at a high school just outside of Paris. I work with all years - keeping in mind that there are only three years of high school here, so my kids are sophomores through seniors. That is actually where I am currently writing this; I'm in between classes. I'm also, I'll have you know, writing this on aEuropean keyboard, which is just similar enough to be comprehensible and just different enough to be maddening. I forget constantly that you have to press shift to get a period, the W and the Z are switched, there's a Q where the A should be, and M is god knows where. Also, it took me about five minutes of staring at it before I found the apostrophe.

Mais voilà. Moving on. I'm tired today, so my thoughts are all over the place, but I wanted to write something about the discussions - or lack thereof - with my students. 

I have small groups, anywhere from 4 to 12 kids, most commonly 8. My job is to make them talk - a worthy goal, but often very difficult! For whatever reason - shyness, level, uncertainty - they are all very reluctant to participate for the most part. I'm trying to figure out how to convince them to try, because I don't believe that students don't have opinions. They just, for the most part, don't share them. It gets frustrating for me when everyone in the class is staring at me when I know they have opinions. The teachers say there are kids who just don't talk, and seem to just think that you can't change that. Of course, I am not an educated teacher, nor am I a psychologist, but it seems to me that there are certain conditions in which kids will participate and certains conditions in which they won't, and it's my job to create a space where the conditions fit the latter. These days I'm just doing it by trial and error.

When they do at last choose to share them, however, they have some interesting ideas. Across the board, they think school is 'pretty bad'. They all think there's too much work and not enough free time, a sentiment I understand. This is a private school so it is much more strict and intensive than usual, but even the public schools here pack in full days of work. 8am to 5 or 6 pm seems to be the norm, and the kids are just worn out. But of course, no teenager in their right mind really 'enjoys' school, do they? However true it may be, I think it's pretty sad.

But one thing they all keep saying, and something that I think should be listened to much more than it is, is that school is boring. I keep asking what would make it better - not because I want them to think they have no choice but because I'm actually curious. If school is boring - and I think these kids are not alone at all - then what can be done to change it? I know from experience that learning can actually be cool - but it seems to be an accepted thought and a foregone conclusion that school will be boring.

We could go to more museums and exhibitions, a few of them suggested. Good point - the opportunity to see what's out there, learn in a practical setting. Have class in different rooms, be able to choose classes so they're with their friends. Almost everyone wants to be able to choose what subjects they study - of course that's not always possible, but maybe it would be possible to create a schedule which includes the basics but also lets them study what they love.

One student said something that I thought was absolutely fascinating. Teachers should be more passionate, they said. I was intrigued. Teachers should be more passionate? Are they not? They make boring classes because they don't like the subject? I doubt that's true, but maybe it is true that we lose the passion in the act of trying to "teach". If you have to Teach, with a capital T, then maybe you worry more about if the students are Learning. But it seems to me that people respond to passion - and perhaps we should leave behind the idea of Teaching, and think about sharing - just sharing. Just like saying, hey, I think this is really cool. Let me tell you why.

Hey, it's worth a shot, right? Especially because at least 60% of every class thinks school is 'pretty bad'. As for me? I think we can do better than that. 

The Daily Life: getting used to life in Paris

Yes, I owe you all an apology. I haven't really updated the blog. To be honest, I just haven't known what to write. I've been on a couple trips, but I think you can get a good sense of them by going to my photobucket and checking out the pictures. They can be found here.

In the meantime, I just didn't know what to say. My brain has been working overtime, but most of the details would, I'm sure, bore you to death and besides you'd rather hear about Paris.

But what can I tell you about Paris? I don't know how many weeks I've been here - a little over two months, I do know that. But what that means -- I'm not sure I could say. Some days I feel like I only arrived yesterday -- most days, in fact. I really find it difficult to keep track of the day, the date, the weeks even. They go by very quickly.

I can tell you, I suppose, that occasionally I notice that life here has become habitual. I drink coffee in the morning with my host mom if we're up at the same time. Whoever's up first makes the coffee, whoever finishes it washes out the machine. I walk to classes, or more often take the metro. I buy paninis for lunch, or I bring cheese and buy a baguette.

I take it for granted that I can get a baguette at any time during the day from really anywhere, and that it will be really good. I feel shafted when, as the case has been the last two days, the boulangerie is out of them. I try to keep myself to one pastry a week but usually fail, because they are just. so. darn. good.

The first floor is not the ground level and when someone says "4th floor," I understand that means I go up 4 flights of stairs, instead of 3 in the US system. I get annoyed when the Metro magazine or the Direct Matin or the Direct Soir isn't around in the metro stations, and when they are there, I pick them up. The American TV series are dubbed into French and it surprises me whenever I hear someone on the TV speaking English.

I have finally mastered the 24 hour clock and can roughly understand what it means when it's 8 degrees celsius (cold). I have picked up several typical French speaking habits, like inserting "en fait," "fin," and "bah" in my everyday conversation, including my favorite, that something is "n'importe quoi", meaning it's nothing, rubbish, ridiculous. I don't think about answering people in French, and upon learning where I'm from, I'm very often complimented on my speaking ability. I notice American accents and am starting to hear the British accent.

What else can I tell you? I don't look at metro maps anymore. I know which lines to take in which direction and am working on remember where in the station to get on and off the cars to maximize my efficiency.

It has been two months and that seems like such an incredibly short time to me. There is yet so,so much time left here. I've been here long enough that I'm finally starting to miss certain places, and especially people. It's still a really long time until I see most of my family and friends, and that bothers me often.

I wish I could tell you more, be more specific, but my life is not specific these days -- it's just life. And that is, I suppose, the best indication that Paris is becoming home to me. I don't need to think about every day so much. It just is -- it is there, and I live it. So simple.

I'll try and be more creative -- and quicker -- with my next post.

Bisous à tous.