California Again

I've been back in California for three days now. While I'm still on France's  time, while some of my clothes still smell faintly like second-hand-Parisian smoke, and while I still have that lingering (but rapidly fading) feeling that I'm in the City of Love, I need to write. I need to write about what it's like to be back in the States—before my fear becomes reality and these past months become nothing but a page in a scrapbook or a foggy, half-forgotten dream.

First of all, as you can deduce from my last post, it is wonderful to be home. Nay, beyond wonderful. I mean... Yesterday, I baked gingerbread cookies (with an eggnog glaze frosting...mmmm). I drove my car around Tehachapi blasting my music and singing as loud as I could. I went out to dinner with three of my best friends. I randomly ran into at least 5 people that I know—because that's just what happens when you grew up in a tiny town and you go home for the holidays. It's been great!!

There have been a couple of things though... things that have been not necessarily negative—but perhaps a little strange—since being back home.

For one, I realized that I do not know how to interact with people in English anymore. I'm totally comfortable with my family and friends, of course, but I'm a seriously socially awkward individual right now. Allow me to explain.
Yesterday, I met up with my friend David to go around to businesses and hang up flyers/ask for sponsors for a benefit concert he is organizing for Invisible Children (which is an organization that helps rehabilitate former child soldiers of the LRA in Uganda and the DRC). My job was to hit all the businesses in the Albertson's shopping center. Easy right? Easy as... gâteau? Just walk in, be charming, ask if you can hang the flyer, maybe explain a little more what the concert and organization is about, and you're done. Boom.

So I walk into the first store. And I freeze. Isn't this the part where I'm supposed to say "Bonjour Monsieur" ??
"Uh.. hiii..." I say in a stupid sing-song way, almost as if it's a question.
"Hi" The shop owner responds expectingly, in that tone as if he's returning the question.
(Now I'm supposed to say "Je voudrais...."? "J'ai une petit probleme?" "Excusez-moi de vous déranger?..." No Erin. Focus. Geeeze!)
"I was woooondering if I could hang this paper in your window, I mean.. this flyer.. it's for a benefit concert for invisible children and..."
"Well how am I supposed to know they are there?"
"Um, I— I'm sorry.. what?" (What language is this again? Why don't I understand this man?)
"The invisible children, how am I supposed to know if they're there if I can't see them?"
(Oh. It was a joke.And now he is smiling condescendingly as if I am a total idiot.)
He took the poster and taped it to the window for me.
"Okay well," (Merci Beaucoup Monsieur, Au revoir, bonne journee!) "Thanks so much for your help... have a.. great day.. evening. Goodbye.. Sir."
(Goodbye sir? Come on. Normal people don't say that!)

Whoa. That's when I realized that I haven't had an exchange with a stranger in English in months. It felt so... unnatural. I was so conscious of whether or not I should smile, how formal I was acting, and it was SO easy to find the words to express what I needed that I just didn't know what to do with myself! I'm sure that I'll get over it in a day or two...
I was just as weird when I walked into all of the other businesses in that shopping center. Really, there was only one exchange that didn't result in me feeling like an idiot, and that was a rather flirtatious encounter with a young guy that works at the AT&T store. I guess that's because one thing that living in France has taught me about interacting with strangers is how to be flirty and charming—it's just what you have to do there—so that was easy for me!
So yeah, I'm a flirtatious awkward, bumbling bafoon now. Great.
In the end, almost all the shops let me hang up the flyer or at least kept a copy until they could ask a manager. That's really all that matters!

Also: I haven't walked anywhere today.
The first few weeks that I was in Paris, I would come home every night with aching feet. My legs and feet got stronger, but still over the course of four months, the streets of Paris relentlessly destroyed least five pairs of my shoes. Paris is a city for walking. I would walk 15 minutes both ways to school multiple times a day. I would walk to the market, walk to the bank, walk to...well I had no car, so I would walk everywhere actually!. One day I might walk a few blocks to a Metro stop, go underground, walk just as far or more through the white-tiled tunnels under the city, walk a few more blocks to my destination—let's say, a site-visit for my history class—then I would walk on a tour of a building or a museum for two hours with my professor, then I would probably walk back to the metro, perhaps after a stop at a cafe, and do it all in reverse. Later that day, I would probably want to go out, so my feet would hit pavement again. Or, if I was feeling like a quiet evening, I'd probably decide to go for a walk along the Seine for an hour or so. Or maybe I'd walk around the Louvre. Or just take the metro to a random neighborhood and explore. Once a week I walked from my neighborhood in the 12th to the farthest west end of the 7th on the opposite side of the city. Walk walk walk-e-dy walk. Not only that, but at the end of my semester I had even reached the point where I was doing all this walking in HEELS. What? Erin? Heels? Yeah.
So anyway, how many times did that paragraph include some form of the verb "to walk"? You get the picture.

The thing is, my life felt a lot more balanced that way. Here in the States, I feel like I have to work out and go running all the time to get a healthy dose of exercise (because all we do is sit in our cars in between point A, where we were sitting, and point B, where we will be sitting some more...). When you're on your feet walking literally all day though, you don't need that exercise as much. Not only that, it's just good for the soul! You're out there, in the fresh air, in all kinds of weather, with all types of people... it's beautiful! How much are we missing because it's hidden behind our windshields or muffled by our radios?

Anyway. that's my rant. (Sorry). I tried walking in Tehachapi yesterday; it was weird. I mean, as I was walking down the empty streets, the total silence was finally broken by one dog barking and a piece of trash blowing across the road like a tumbleweed in an old Western... and right about then I accepted that I wasn't going to be able to recreate "flâner"-ing (strolling) on the lively rues of Paris.
That's okay though. Just because it's different in Paris doesn't mean it's better. It will definitely just take some readjusting...


Honestly, I could go on for days about all of the cultural differences i've noticed and awkward little adjustments I've had to make.
Today I could, anyway.
Tomorrow though, who knows if I could?
...because the fact is that a few months living in France is just a tiny slice in the pie of two decades of living in the United States. (Note that it's the "pie", not the "tarte")
I can already feel myself slipping back into my normal routines, mannerisms, relationships, everything! It's bittersweet, because I feel so at home and comfortable again, but already my life, ma vie a' Paris, is starting to feel like it belonged to someone else.

That's why I'm so thankful that I've been periodically writing in this blog. Even though I'm a little bit embarrassed of it, i've tried to be as honest and personal as possible. I know that I can look back on the things that I have written over the last few months and just maybe travel back for a moment to the city that inspired all my words. I can remember what it was like, what I was like. That reminder is invaluable, because it truly would be a loss to forget the lessons that I learned in Paris, the people that I met in Paris, the things that I saw in Paris, and the person I became in Paris.  

HOME

In Paris right now, it's 3:15 in the afternoon. All the businesses are closed, and the streets are glossy from rain and sparkling in the sun. Down Avenue Daumesnil, families walk along the arcades under the Viaduct bundled in pea-coats and scarves, and joggers are out for a Sunday run in the cold. At my favorite bakery, people have been popping in all day to get the day's baguettes or perhaps a sweet treat. At my favorite cafe, a few people are sitting inside in the warmth with drinks. At my church, the afternoon service has ended and now my friends are gathered in the theater for coffee.... 

In Tehachapi, California right now, 6,000 miles away, it's 6:30 in the morning. Christmas lights are twinkling along the eves of my home, I can hear the distant familiar sound of highway 58, and I can see the dark outline of hills and mountains against the faintly blue sky of dawn. I can't sleep, I suppose due to jet lag, so I've been up for a while. 

Just a few minutes ago, deciding to get up and get a glass of water, I slid out of bed and lowered my bare feet to the floor—the very same floor where my big brother and I would play with our toys, the very same floor that used to be littered with books and papers as I did my homework in high school, and the very same floor where my suitcase sat, just a few months ago, half-filled with the things I would be taking to Paris. 

I crept down the hallway, and passed where my parents were sleeping. How wonderful it feels to know my family is across the hall, rather than across an ocean and a continent! 
Reaching my living room I turned on me Christmas tree lights so that I could have enough light to find a glass in the cupboard, and felt an indescribable, entirely overwhelming wave of joy. I was so flooded with nostalgia-drenched memories, so incomprehensibly at peace, and so happy to be at home, that it hurt. 

I got my water, turned off the lights, and headed back to my bedroom. 

The sun is starting to rise now. It's the same sun that rose on the other side of the world in Paris just hours ago, and it has made its way here to California. At this moment, its light, just like my thoughts, reaches simultaneously to the timeless City of Lights, and to this tiny town you've never heard of called Tehachapi. 
When it sets in Paris, and the lights on the Eiffel tower are glittering just the same as they did when I watched at midnight on my last night in the city, it will be fully-risen and shining here on this side of the world.

 ...And I'll be beneath it, perhaps going to church, or doing some Christmas shopping with my mom, or visiting some old friends. 

I don't know when my homesickness for Paris is going to set-in, but it will. I don't know when I'm going to notice that I have changed, but I will. As of this morning though, I am content.How could I have ever had a doubt that returning to this place might be difficult, or that it might be too hard to re-adjust? 

This is home. 

.. and there is no place, not lively cities nor pristine landscapes nor anywhere to which I have travelled these past few months, like home.  

Au Revoir or Salut... but never Adieu

I'm approaching my last day, the abrupt end of my long journey abroad. This "experience," as I will call it, has been such a fulfilling one, an enlightening one, and a surprising one. 
Yet it feels unfinished, tonight, as I sit among piles of clothes and maps and photos and memories that wait to know if they will be packed up or left behind. 
I suppose I thought that by the last day, my story would come to a conclusion. I thought the protagonist of this tale would be able to wrap up all that she has learned into one neatly-packaged and eloquently-put  "moral of the story." 
Instead, I just have more questions; I have more to learn, more to see, and more to understand. 

At some point, in the time between hugging my history professor goodbye and finally pulling my suitcase out of my closet to start packing, as I walked my usual route down Faubourg St. Antoine and Avenue Ledru-Rollin, past all those cafes and fluerists and pharmacies and boulangeries and boutiques that I have passed nearly every day over these months, it hit me. 

I'm leaving. 

and I wonder, when will I be back? What have I been taking for granted and what will I miss? I can't pack up all of the lessons and friends and adventures and trials and experiences that I have collected while in Paris—after all, there's a 50 pound weight limit for luggage with the airline I'll be taking home.   

I have ONE day left in Paris. How do I want to spend it?  

Well, I can assure you that I do not want to spend the whole day tomorrow packing. So I will leave on that note, with that unanswered question, and tonight instead I will hopefully finish up all of my packing and pre-departure preparation.  

There's one thing I'll keep in mind though, as I'm listening to melancholy music, placing folded up memories in the pockets of my bags, and feeling contemplative, sad, and a little poetic (because that's exactly how ridiculous I imagine I'll be acting). To Paris, I only say "au revoir", which means, until we see each other again—or perhaps to Paris, now my good friend, I can informally say, "Salut."  But most definitely, I do not say adieu!  

Looking back:

I just posted a new blog about five minutes ago... but I have more to say.

I just read through  almost all of my old posts (probably because I'm trying to put-off packing and studying for my final? ...some things never change.)

As I was reading, I kept finding all of these wild cultural  generalizations and  hastily-jumped-to conclusions. It was frustrating to read my own work and be so... annoyed, but the change in perspective evident in my writing is truly a testament to how much I have grown and changed since the day I first arrived here.

Anyway... this doesn't count as a blog post. It's more like a disclaimer:
The thoughts and opinions expressed in earlier writing  are not necessarily those of my present-day self.

There is always another layer of naivety to be shed, always another lesson to be learned, and always another vantage point from which you can view the world. My thoughts today might not be my thoughts tomorrow, but that's not necessarily inconsistency; maybe it's growth. 

Re-entry

By the looks of my apartment, you wouldn't think that in just a couple of days i'll be moved out and on my way to California. 

There are maps and souvenirs still taped to my walls, clothes still hanging neatly in my closet and tucked in my drawers,  dirty dishes waiting to be washed in my sink, and books and papers sitting helter-skelter on my shelves. 

I think I'm in denial. 

I just got back from the market, where I did allow my mind to briefly consider the looming reality of my departure... but just long enough to remember not to buy anything that I could not use in the next three days. But then I strolled back down the avenue with my grocery tote full of all my favorite French-y items, pretending I'd be a Parisian forever. la dee da dee da..  

But I won't be. 

Soon i'll be on a plane, looking out the window at the twinkling lights of Paris one last time. I'll be leaving this city behind, probably not for good, but at least for a very long time. I don't even know how I feel about that fact, because I've just been acting like it's not going to happen. 

It's what I always do; it's the same thing that I did before I came to Paris. I wasn't really excited or nervous or anything, because I had fully convinced myself that I wasn't ACTUALLY leaving California.
 But then, here I am in Paris still, months later. It happened. 

 I'm going to have to accept that my return to California is going to happen, too. 

Now. Lucky for me (not) I just received this terrifying email from my school here in Paris: 

TOP TEN IMMEDIATE RE-ENTRY CHALLENGES

as rated by University Students

There are many reasons to look forward to going home, but there are also a number of psychological, social, and cultural aspects that can prove difficult.

1. BOREDOM After all the newness and stimulation of your time abroad, a return to family, friends, and old routines (however nice and comforting) can seem very dull. It is natural to miss the excitement and challenges that characterize study in a foreign country.

2. “NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR” One thing you can count on upon your return: no one will be as interested in hearing about your adventures and triumphs as you will be in sharing those experiences. Once they have heard the highlights, any further interest on your audiences’ part is probably unlikely. Be realistic in your expectations of how fascinating your journey is going to be for everyone else.

3. YOU CAN’T EXPLAIN Even when given a chance to explain all the sights you saw and feelings you had while studying abroad, it is likely to be at least a bit frustrating to relay them coherently. It is very difficult to convey this kind of experience to people who do not have similar frames of reference or travel backgrounds, no matter how sympathetic they are as listeners. You can tell people about your trip, but you may fail to make them understand exactly how or why you felt a particular way.

4. REVERSE HOMESICKNESS Just as you probably missed home for a time after arriving in France, it is just as natural to experience some “reverse” homesickness for the people, places, and things that you grew accustomed to in Paris. To an extent it can be reduced by writing letters, telephoning and generally keeping in contact, but feelings of loss are an integral part of international sojourns and must be anticipated and accepted as a natural result of study abroad.

5. RELATIONSHIPS HAVE CHANGED It is inevitable that when you return you will notice that some relationships with friends and family will have changed. Just as you have altered some of your ideas and attitudes while abroad, the people at home are likely to have experienced some changes. These changes may be positive or negative, but expecting that no change will have occurred is unrealistic. 

6. PEOPLE SEE “WRONG” CHANGES Sometimes people may concentrate on small alterations in your behavior or ideas and seem threatened or upset by them. Others may ascribe any “bad” traits to the influence of your time abroad. These incidents with family or friends may be motivated by jealousy, fear, or feelings of superiority or inferiority. To avoid or minimize them it is necessary to monitor yourself and be aware of the reactions of those around you, especially in the first few weeks following your return. 

7. PEOPLE MISUNDERSTAND A few people will misinterpret your words or actions in such a way that communication is difficult. Offers to help in the kitchen can be seen as criticism of food preparation, new clothing styles as provocative or inappropriate, references to France or speaking French as boasting. Be aware of how you may look to others and how your behavior is likely to be interpreted.

8. FEELINGS OF ALIENATION/CRITICAL EYES Sometimes the reality of being back “home” is not as natural or enjoyable as the place you had constructed as your mental image. When real daily life is less enjoyable or more demanding than you remembered, it is natural to feel some alienation, see faults in the society you never noticed before, or even become quite critical of everyone and everything for a time. Mental comparisons are fine, but keep them to yourself until you regain both your cultural balance and a balanced perspective.

9. INABILITY TO APPLY NEW KNOWLEDGE AND SKILLS Many returnees are frustrated by the lack of opportunity to apply newly gained social, linguistic, and practical coping skills that appear to be unnecessary or irrelevant. To avoid ongoing annoyance: adjust to reality as necessary, change what is possible, be creative and patient, and above all use all the cross- cultural adjustment skills you acquired abroad to assist your own re-entry. For example, during your stay in France you have mastered public transportation and train travel in general. It is common to feel “land locked” and unable to use your travel skills in daily life as with your adventures that were such a part of your life abroad.

10. LOSS/COMPARTMENTALIZATION OF EXPERIENCE Being home, coupled with the pressures of job, family, and friends, often combine to make returnees worried that somehow they will “lose” the experience. You may feel that somehow the experience will become compartmentalized like souvenirs or photo albums kept in a box to be admired only once in awhile. 

So... great! Essentially, what they are saying here is: 

 "going home will consist of everyone being annoyed and uninterested in you, and you feeling frustrated with and alienated by everyone else. It's going to suck! But you should accept it. Have a safe trip!" 

I guess I anticipated all of this, and I'm pretty sure I will be able to handle these "re-entry challenges" just fine, but it certainly shot down a little bit of the excitement I had about finally returning home. 

I AM excited to go home though. I'm excited to see how this new part of my life is going to unfold. I'm excited for Tehachapi, and for Davis, and for whatever else comes next. I'm excited to see how others have changed, and how I have changed, and how I'm going to fit-in to my old life. I've changed, I know, but I'm still me. Though perhaps I feel different, it only makes going back to an old place more like a new adventure. And I do love adventures.
 Going home is going to be great—i'll make sure of it. 

I've decided that once I have been back home for a while, I'm going to write up a list like this one, but i'll call it "Top Ten BEST things about Re-entry "  and i'll propose it to the campus study abroad center. 

That way, future students abroad won't be like me, sitting in their rooms, putting off packing, and dreading the day they have to get on the plane...

Because the one place to which you should never dread returning, is home.  

The Paris-Pastry-Per-Day-Diet

I'm currently on the "Paris-Pastry-Per-Day" diet. It's the best (though perhaps not the most effective) diet ever. With just a week or so left on this side of the Earth, I've decided that I need to fully enjoy Paris—et vivre la vie au maximum.

If you want to know what life tastes like, this is the diet for you.

Basically, you walk into a boulangerie/patisserie and you demand (politely) the most decadent, sweet, beautifully constructed, magnificent little pâtisserie that they've got.


And then, you enjoy it.

Now, one unfortunate side effect of this diet  is that you will probably be happier, wiser, and kinder for the rest of the day. If you happen to find the right pâtisser, and pick just the right pastry, you may even reach Total Enlightenment.

On Wednesday, I came close. The pastry, to the un-pastry-trained eye, looked odd—a light green jumbo macaron, ornately decorated with swirly sea-foam colored cream and perfect little red raspberries. When I took a bite, the world froze. Suddenly, everything made sense! All the world needs is Pistachio! and Raspberry! and Sugar!

Creamy, light, airy, sweet.
Delightful.

Yeah, It was THAT good.

But seriously, this "Paris-Pastry-Per-Day" thing is less about pastries specifically, and more—if not all—about living well in general.

Lately, I find myself going for walks through the city without a camera, phone, or journal. I just walk; I take in the environment.

It includes the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the sad.

No stressing about tomorrow, dwelling on yesterday, or keeping my mind and heart captive in another place.

It's about experiencing the moments of pure joy, peace, love, hope and understanding that are as ephemeral and sweet as a dainty little Parisian pastry.

This leads into the other theme that's been on my mind. I feel like it's important to document that my life here in Paris is NOT a photo-album, a movie, or a fairy tale...

I write a lot about my experiences traveling on weekends, and I tell cute little stories about moments—just brief moments—that are a little bit magical, funny, or interesting.

These moments that I write about are kind of like pastries—and we know that in life, you can't just go around eating nothing but macaroons and strawberry tarts and chocolate eclairs, just like no life consists solely of those exciting moments worth documenting in a blog or in a photo.

I guess, abandoning this silly pastry metaphor for a minute, what I'm trying to say is that living in Paris has been HARD, too. Living in an apartment by myself, being away from my friends and family, not being able to communicate quite properly with anyone for months—and generally feeling a little bit lost, judged, incompetent, and stupid—has been, to say the least, a challenge for me.

Now, these are not the worst challenges a girl can face, nor are they unique. Anyone living in an unfamiliar place and culture would experience similar adversity (which, by the way, is something we all should try to remember about one another).

But still, I'm just being honest and real. It's not always a good time.

The challenges and the constant pressure of the unfamiliar have shattered the shell around me of what once seemed comfortable, normal, and right. Though difficult at times, that change has been the most valuable part of this experience. I know that the greatest souvenirs that I'll pack up and take home are the lessons and new-found strength that spawned from those challenging times.

So, realistically, life in Paris has been filled mostly with moments ranging from ordinary (if you choose to see them as such) to challenging. That, however, only makes the magical moments that much more enchanting...

and the pastries that much more sweet.

:)

Sing it, Joni!

Since I'm a girl in Paris that's soon coming home to California, this song is just too appropriate! 

I guess it really is the thought that counts!

This November 24th in the USA was a special day; families were meeting together to give thanks and to share a meal with each other, many business were closed, and turkeys across the land were mourning the deaths of their loved ones that had, in masses, been systematically killed, plucked, stuffed, and eaten (and enjoyed) by Americans gathering for the Thanksgiving holiday.

This November 24th, in France, was... a thursday.

Being an American in Paris for Thanksgiving had its benefits. For one, I didn't see a single advertisement for "Black Friday!" Also, it was fun to run into other Americans throughout the day and wish them a happy Thanksgiving—for a day it felt like we were all connected.

Still though, I was feeling pretty down, or at least  a little nostalgic, when I realized that soon all the family would be arriving at Grandma's house for Thanksgiving dinner. I didn't think it would bother me.
But it did.

One thing in particular made spending my Thanksgiving alone in Paris feel a whole lot better. It came in the mail.

It could never (of course) compare to a real Thanksgiving dinner,
but opening up this "thanksgiving" themed box—complete with turkey jerky, dried cranberries, pecan pie bars (SO good), Pumpkin cookies, apple pie flavored chewing gum, and other non-perishable versions of American traditional Thanksgiving-Y things—was like opening up a box of love.

(Awwww.)

 It was just nice to remember that there are people out there, even though they're far away, that love me so much.
So no, Ju Ju Jerky can't compare to tender turkey with stuffing and gravy prepared by my Grandma and carved by my uncle Tom; apple pie flavored gum is not even close to as good as my aunt Karen's or Joyce's apple pie; dried cranberries can't... well, no actually, I'd probably still take those over cranberry sauce...

The point is, even though I didn't get to be with the family for Thanksgiving, getting this little package in the mail—this reminder that home is waiting for me, even an ocean away—was almost enough to make up for missing one of my favorite holidays. It was enough just to know that I have a family that was thinking of me. All I would have needed is some of my grandma's famous "niener-niener rolls" (as we call them), and then I would have been completely content. ;)

I just have ONE sentence to say about my trip to London (or two, counting this one)

CONSIDERING the fact that we failed to board our Eurostar train because we were too busy discussing a pompus young man named Aaron Galiger from Zoe's elementary school that insisted that French Toast doesn't exist in France (which is false) to notice that Eurostar doesn't leave from the same platform as the rest of the trains at Paris Gare du Nord station ( by the time we realized this our train was already leaving, though luckily we were allowed on the next train), AND the fact that the train, once we finally boarded it, got stuck due to an "alarm" in the Chunnel for an extra hour or so (which we concluded must be due to a "chunneled" whale in the tunnel), AND the fact that when we arrived in London at that unanticipated late-hour it took so long to find an ATM that we nearly missed the last Underground train to Brixton (near which we would be renting a room in the house of someone named Jessica for the weekend), AND the fact that after getting lost trying to find the place at one in the morning we were so tired that Faith read the house number (65) incorrectly as 66, so we knocked on the doors of the residents of both 66 and 66a who—tired confused and annoyed—told us that "no, no one named Jessica lives here,"
AND the fact that briefly we thought that perhaps we were stranded in the wrong city (London, rather than Lambeth, which was what was written on our itinerary), AND the fact that our cell phone number for Jessica would not work (and even if it did she was probably asleep that late at night anyway), AND the fact that even once we finally found Jessica and were very warmly welcomed into her home (which was surprising since we arrived like 5 hours after we were supposed to) the situation—and by "situation", I mean temporarily being stranded and homeless in the suburbs of London—did not much improve, since she had: a cat (to which I was ridiculously allergic), a heater that warmed the room up to about, give or take, the temperature of a slightly above-average hot day in the Mojave Desert, a toilet that would not flush, and a temperamental water heater that apparently only liked Zoe (because she's the only one all weekend that was lucky enough to not have to take an ice cold shower—well, her and later the other traveller staying with Jessica that weekend, who, while I was waiting for a few minutes in the other room for the water to heat up after I got up at 7am and FIXED the water heater MYSELF so that I could take a hot shower, slipped into the bathroom and took a nearly 30 minute shower before I got a chance to, which, you guessed it, used up ALL the hot water which I had worked so hard to have),
AND the fact that after our exciting weekend in London—about which I will speak later in this ridiculously long sentence—we found that the only subway line leaving Brixton at 7 in the morning on the day that we had to catch our train back to Paris had been shut down due to a "sick passenger," and therefore we had no way of reaching St. Pancras Station in time, AND the fact that once we realized that a bus to the station would take too long, we found that all the taxis at the nearest cab-hire had already been called to pick up a rowdy crew of (kinda creepy) middle-aged ravers in strange  costumes still drunk, high, and who knows what else, from the night before, AND the fact that we were afraid that even if we found a cab (which we did) we wouldn't have enough pounds left to pay the driver and even if we did have enough pounds to pay the driver, it might be wasted because we still might not make it to the station in time (which we did), AND considering all kinds of other mishaps that seemed certain to ruin our trip but somehow miraculously worked out fine in the end,
it's crazy to think that Faith, Zoe, and I still had the most amazing, fun, random, adventurous, silly weekend, filled with quite a lot of tea and cookies, plenty of monuments to take odd pictures with, lots of speaking ENGLISH, (loooads of speaking English with a fake British accent, too), tons of zooming around on the Tube, a few spontaneous decisions that ended up being the highlights of the trip (like the random decision to go see "Wicked" at the theater on saturday night!), and many other adventures—the kind that are only fun when you are in the company of fun people—in London this weekend .  

Pictures here ----> Foggy London Town!

What's a Monument?

What is a monument? 

      With ink made of stone, brass, metal, and paper, humanity combats its own ephemerality; it writes a journal of its values, its heroes, and its most important events on the pages of the earth. Monuments are the words that tell the story. Like notes quickly scribbled on paper, monuments tangibly exists to remember—because humanity will collectively, inevitably, forget. 

      Like any story, monuments have an author and monuments have a reader. They are neither free from bias nor unaffected by interpretation. Still, monuments physically exist outside of humanity; they outlive, at least for a while, the human creators that bloom and perish around them. 

     Too many people have lived; too much history has passed. Memory has to fade—but monuments remember for us.  

       
      In the same way that an people feel the need to take photographs or keep a diary that will remember the most important days, people, and memories in their lifetimes, societies have left physical traces of their memories and stories on the earth. Monuments, in the official sense of the word, exist to substantiate events and heroes that the authors (usually those in power) deemed important enough for public memory. This also means that certain aspects of history must be selected and others omitted; therein lies the bias. (1)

    Because multiple authors contribute, the stories told through monuments on the landscape of a city do not necessarily thematically correspond—and I think this is especially true in Paris.

The fact that just up the Seine from the Memorial de La Shoah lies a monument to Alexander III of Russia, a notorious persecutor of the Jews, demonstrates the incongruity in ideology and values. 

     So what is a monument? A monument has an author, a monument has a reader, and a monument tells a story. I'd like to focus on the former of the two discordant entries in Paris' journal of history mentioned above, Le Memorial de la Shoah, and discuss why it is monument by this definition—and also what story it tells, how and why the author tells it, and how (if it matters how) the readers interpret it. 

  The Memorial de la Shoa

Le Memorial de la Shoah memorializes the Holocaust, the mass murder of Jews under German Nazi regime during WWII, in the following ways: 

     It serves, first, as a museum and source of archives about the history of the Holocaust in Europe, to pass along the memory to future generations in an accessible, educational way. 

     It also honors those citizens that were deported from France during the “Final Solution;” though most deportees perished in the Nazi extermination camps, the Wall of Names metaphorically immortalizes their memory and their identity.

     It serves, finally, to preserve the memory of the Holocaust in a more abstract way. In the crypt, visitors see a memorial symbolizing the grave of 6 million Jewish people—a black stone Star of David, with an eternal burning light to commemorate their lives and deaths. The Monument writes these words from the Hebrew Bible in the diary of  human history: “Young and old, our sons and daughters were cut down by the sword.” 

Why must this story be “written down” in this way—immortalized in stone? Perhaps those who designed the Memorial de la Shoah, the many authors of this monument, sought to ensure that the memory and lessons of the Shoah cannot pass away with the generation that experienced its horrors. A memory so strong, that has left such a scar on not just the Jewish community but the world, should not be forgotten. Collectively, the impact of its memory will be felt regardless, and perhaps monuments to the Holocaust should be constructed to remind us why.  

Perhaps the story told by this monument has also been written down so that it can be forgotten. As contemporaries of the Holocaust are replaced on this earth, at least vestiges of their memory have been preserved. By incarnating this story in the form of a monument—by saying that, of all the innumerable events that took place in our history, this is one worth remembering—the "authors" of this monument express their values and teach a lesson to future generations. 
  
     But can they truly be remembered? Can a monument remember for us, without the participation and interpretation of "readers"?

Or maybe the question is really for whom, the authors or the readers, is a monument built? In the case of the Memorial de la Shoah, which serves honor the lost and to educate future generations, I would argue both.
  
     Le Memorial de la Shoah provoked thought in me and moved me deeply. I could never, however, remember the Holocaust in its pure horror nor comprehend its magnitude and complexity simply by being a reader of the memorial's story. The Shoah, over time, will not be felt or understood in the same way. No matter how powerful and moving a memorial, no matter how thoroughly its history is taught, it will be, in a sense, forgotten; it is already becoming fuzzy in our collective human memory.

     But perhaps this monument, and all monuments, satisfy a human need to try, desperately, to leave something of ourselves on earth that lives forever, that continues, even though our part in the history of the world will end.

    And maybe sometimes, for the authors, that is enough.

    Monuments remain whether the stories they were written to tell lose their meaning or are ever read again. They remain like tangible markers driven to the earth as generations rapidly pass, like notes quickly scribbled in the pages of history. 

(1) ¹ I would like to point out, before I continue, that I don’t emphasize this bias to in any way discredit the story told through the monument that I intend to discuss later. I only think it necessary to establish that history, as told through monuments or any other media, is always, and must always, be told from a specific point of view. 

More than just The Art et l'Histoire du Judaïsme

On Thursday, I visited the Museum of Jewish History and Art in Paris. The experience provided me not only a slightly more sophisticated understanding of Jewish history, culture, religion, etc., but also some new thoughts on "culture"—whatever we interpret that word to mean. 

Of course, I know that the Israelites did not go from 40 years in the wilderness with Moses straight to Europe in the early 20th century. I know that the Holocaust does not define Jewish culture. I know this, logically, but my formal education and life experiences—at least until Thursday—did little to inform me otherwise... 

Le Musee d'Art et l'Histoire du Judaïsme differs from other museums dedicated to Jewish history that I have visited here in Paris; rather than creating an image of “European Jews” as a single, homogenous unit (as many museums and texts do), it tells the story of the unique forms that Judaism takes in various parts of Europe and North Africa. By taking the visitor through specific details about Judaism (holidays, traditions, art, etc.) the museum emphasizes diversity while still demonstrating the parallels that do unify Jewish culture through history and across geographic and cultural lines. 

The Museum of the Art and History of Judaism reminds its visitors that all of the people that identify with a culture or a religion are not the same. No single image, event, place, person, anything, really, can entirely define a "culture." 

We cannot expect a museum dedicated to the history of Judaism to omit the terrible events we have come to call the Holocaust. This one though, unlike most museums and monuments that I have personally visited, did not present the plight of the Jewish people as disproportionately important compared to their triumphs. Instead, the Musee d’Art et d’Histoire de Judaism exhibits individuals, real stories, art, tradition, and history dating back to the middle ages, to show the seemingly obvious but overshadowed truth—that Judaism existed and thrived before the Holocaust, and that it continues to do so today.

Perhaps, as a result, this uncommonly positive tribute to Jewish history does more to honor the genocide victims than other museums and memorials to the Holocaust, like the Memorial de la Shoa just down the street. We can’t comprehend 6 million Jewish victims. We don’t know the faces or the lives or the souls of the names lined up, as if waiting for roll-call, on a memorial wall. What we can comprehend is culture, tradition, and family. Weddings, holidays, and art. Individuals, stories, and faces.  In a way, this museum gives Jewish history a quality that Naziism sought to destroy—humanity.

I don’t mean to imply that the Museum de l’Art et l’Histoire Judaism somehow accurately defines Jewish faith and culture the way that the memory of the Shoa cannot...

"Culture" is complicated; it is made up of unique individuals, and perhaps it is something more than the sum of these. "History" is complicated; it made up of more than just the events deemed worthy of putting in a 7th grade textbook. 

No event, piece of art, icon, personality, or collection of artifacts can really define a "culture", its history, or—most importantly—the people and lives that these abstract concepts describe. 

Receiving when you give, and giving back when you receive...

On the cold days that make your cheeks rosy and your nose run, it seems you pass as many chic Parisians sitting in cafes, bundled in wool pea coats and Burberry scarves and sipping hot coffee as you see Parisians shivering and hungry in dark corners and alleys. 

I recently did some service work with the American Church in Paris, handing out sandwiches and juice to the homeless. I knew that a group of six girls passing out a hundred-or-so sandwiches that day wouldn't do much to solve the problems of hunger and extreme poverty—in fact, it wouldn't solve the fact that tomorrow, those people will be hungry again. But I know how grateful they were to have something to eat for lunch that day. I know how much they needed it.  

I guess, as I was walking around Paris and pondering it all, I realized that to not help one person because all that you can do is not enough to solve the greater, systemic problems at work—to not help someone because all that you can do is not enough to even solve all the greater problems in that individual's life—is what they sometimes call a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So helping out one person in need as I'm walking down the street wont solve the problems of the world; there is a world though, at one moment of a day, on one block of the street, where there are two stomachs—one is full, and one is empty. In that universe, of that moment, you have the power to solve all of the problems of the world. You can fill all the empty stomachs of that world. Or, in that universe, of that moment, you can ignore the opportunity and walk on by. 

And here's the thing. When you give, you receive... 

Aha, so it's really about self-interest and feeling all warm and fuzzy inside? It's really not about giving to others, it's about making yourself feel better because you feel guilty for getting the sweet end of the lollipop in life? 
Well... 
Maybe it is. 
(WHAT?!!) 

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only narcissistic jerk out there that can't help but see the world only out of my own two eyes. But it's hard to be selfless. Sometimes I think we don't even realize how often our good intentions are designed to benefit ourselves.
And even at those moments when we come closest to pure, untainted love and selflessness, there is not anything on Earth much sweeter than that feeling. You do, truly, receive when you give.   

But you know what? That's okay. Think back on that little world I was talking about earlier, in which there is one full stomach and one empty stomach; if the person with the empty stomach can have a warm lunch that day because the person with the full stomach is a selfish cretin with a guilty conscience trying to feel good about her or himself, that world, at that moment, is still at peace. 

I'm not preaching. In fact, pretty much no one reads this blog but me. So this is more a reminder to myself, to remember how important it is to give, to remember that I can always buy a couple extra things at the grocery store and make a couple of mini-worlds a better place as I walk back home...

It's a reminder that I shouldn't feel helpless and weighed down by the state of the earth, by all the problems that I feel powerless to solve, because there is always that little world around me—that particular moment and space that I occupy—in which I do have the ability to, for want of a better, less trite expression, "do the right thing." 

As I said, Paris has done a lot for me. 
...and I think it is my duty to do what I can for Paris in return. It's reciprocity. If I give back when I receive, and receive when I give back, then begins a cycle. 
Maybe, or maybe probably, it's a cycle that stays in the same place—that never gets out of the rut. Or maybe it's a cycle that moves all parties involved upwards towards a better future. Or maybe it's neither of those. I really don't know. 
But I just don't see how it could make anything worse.

I'm sure to someone out there who reads this, or even to myself when I read this in the future, this post will seem a bit naive... but this is how I feel now, and this is what I felt inspired to write about today. 

I guess that there are about 7 billion people in the world,

...and I am one of them.

Which means, I AM the 00.00000142857143%

Or if we accept that about 108 billion people have ever lived on earth, I am (actually) the 00.000000000925925926 %  

I'm about 3,700 miles from Wall-street, 2,000 miles from Cairo, and I am occupying my blog right now.

But since cyberspace seems to be infinite, I guess that this blog is also infinitely insignificant... and therefore doesn't really exist as a space that can be occupied at all.  

...but no need to bother ourselves with these silly and wildly inaccurate figures now.

The point that I intend to make, both ridiculous and quite profound when you think about it, is that nothing I'm about to say really matters.

BUT, I feel compelled to talk about recent events that have taken place at my home university, UC Davis, that have made international headlines. Basically, police attempted to brake up a UCD protest by using pepper spray.

It's shocking to me, because protests at UCD, from my experience, are rarely something to get all excited and bust-out your pepper spray over. Now I hear that thousands are protesting, which I do believe is unprecedented on our campus..

I feel a lot of pressure to takes sides and have an opinion... but I don't know, this is real life, not hollywood.

What I mean is, there isn't always a villain and a victim and a hero in every story in life. No, in fact, that's the problem! Real life is—not—a—STORY! At all. Time just goes by; things just happen. I'd argue reality doesn't have a linear beginning, middle, and end.

We so often, if not always, tend to constrict our lives into narratives. I guess we can't see the universe from all angles. We look at events from one point of view, like we're watching a movie or reading a book.

But the officers involved in pepper-spraying those protesters didn't go into the campus police force so that they could brutalize students. They aren't evil villains—they have families and lives and (used to...) have jobs.

I don't know how it happened; I don't know why it happened. I don't, by any means, condone it.
Just because the media, by nature, has to squeeze complex and incomprehensible social phenomena into 60 second, easily understandable short stories doesn't mean that life really is like that. Events don't always have a set inciting incident, rising action, climax, and conclusion. There isn't an antagonist or protagonist, and ALL of the characters are dynamic, not static. For any one "event" there isn't just one plot, but an infinite number of plots—an INFINITE number of factors—all intersecting in a moment. It's complicated, people. I guess that's why I don't have a real opinion.

Or maybe I'm just a weanie.

I don't know. If I'm being contacted by students from UCD saying basically "Dude! Guess what you're missing out on!!" about the protests on campus, it's a pretty good indicator to me of what is really going on. And I don't think it's what those involved would like to think is going on. I won't say anymore about that though. (Yikes.)

But anyway, I hope I'm not saying something really controversial here. I wasn't there, so it's possible that I'm way off... but as I always say, it's my blog.

(And we already proved that nothing I say matters anyway)

But even if I do upset a few people, I'll only have, what, the .0000000714285714% against me? So I guess i'm not too worried about it.

Photos from Amsterdam

This weekend I travelled to Amsterdam!
Maybe I'll do a post on the trip later when I'm not totally swamped with homework! In the mean time, here are some pictures:

Amsterdam, Holland 

Erin as of November 14th

Tonight, I don't feel like writing something analytical, or philosophical, or anecdotal, or even something with a point. I kinda just want to write about me, and where I'm at right now, if that's quite alright with you.


Today, before a 5:30 class and after a morning of feeling super stressed out over silly things like not having the correct change (again) to do my mountain of dirty laundry, I decided to follow my nose for a while.
I like to do that in Paris, and just in life in general. It seems my nose always leads me to just the place where I'm meant to be.
Well today, on a whim, I decided to leave my pile of dirty laundry right in the middle of my floor and  go somewhere. Anywhere. As I walked out the door, I saw my guitar, and decided I should take it along. Why not?
I made some arbitrary lefts and rights and found myself at a metro stop. My guitar and I got on line 1 going in the direction of La Defence, just because. The train stopped at the Tuileries and I thought, hey, I bet the Tuileries Garden is fabulous and peaceful on a slightly chilly Monday afternoon in November, so my guitar and I got off the train.
Besides some joggers, a couple fellow relaxation seekers, and a model (dressed in a ridiculous black tutu thing) doing a photo-shoot with a very french photographer, I had a nice section of the garden pretty much to myself. I sat down in a little green chair underneath a sunshiny gap in the trees and started to play music. I played all the songs that could come to my head. I started out singing softly but as I began to realize that no one was there to judge, I started to break out and sing as loudly or softly as I wished.
Music is just good for my soul, you know? I think we all have those activities—and not necessarily just artistic ones—that feed our souls, relieve our stress, and remind us who we are and why we are.
Or maybe I'm just weird.
Anyway, after a while, I noticed that a few people had sat down in their own little green chairs in patches of sunshine near me to listen and relax... a mother and daughter, a businessman in a suit, a girl about my age, a pair of older gentlemen. I don't even remember what I played—old songs, new songs, songs that I had written, and sometimes just little parades of chords that went together. It felt so amazing to share with those random people.
When my fingers started feeling frozen, I quickly picked up my guitar and left—no applause, no spare change in my case, but feeling more satisfied and at peace than I had felt in a very long time.
As I walked out of the garden and back towards the metro, I found a fifty euro cent piece on the ground, which was exactly the coin I needed to finally do my laundry
Aha! I knew my nose brought me here for a reason!
_______________________________________________
Okay. So that was pretty darn anecdotal, which I said I didn't want to do. Oops. So now on to something totally unrelated....
Let's talk about something else that's on my mind tonight. I'm starting to feel like the day I board the plane and fly back to Los Angeles is just around the corner... and honestly, I'm a little bit scared.
I'm scared of what it will be like to go back to my life after this.
I'm afraid that I will be too different to just pick everything right back up. I'm afraid that my world, that was once so familiar, is going to look a just little bit stranger now.
I mean, what am I going to do when my bread can't double as a walking stick and costs more than 40 cents?????
Just kidding, that's the least of my worries.
(But seriously, I'll miss the baguette)
It's just, I feel so different here. It wasn't until my mom came to visit last week that I realized how little like the usual Erin I have been feeling and acting in this new environment. I guess you could say I'm still myself, just out of my original context.
Perhaps most of all I'm afraid of this question, which I KNOW I will be hearing.
"So how was France?"
Please, I beg you, if you are reading this, do not ask me this question when I see you next.
Ask me about French people, about French culture, or about French food, about the people i've met, the friends i've made, the lessons I've learned. Ask me about adjusting to life in another country, ask me about my school, my classes, my peers, the places I travelled. Ask me about museums, art, architecture. Ask me my perception of Paris, France, and Europe (because let's not forget, that's all it really is—my perception) Or at least ask me what I liked and what I disliked about my time abroad. Ask me about learning the French language, ask me about French politics, heck, even French fashion. OR, make me really happy, and ask about French HISTORY! In fact, please ask me about French History, and I will tell you all about it for the rest of the day. 
I'm no expert on any of these topics, but I'd be happy to share my very shallow, biased impression of things. 
But please, please, PLEASE, don't ask me "how was France?"
Because if you catch me on a day when I don't feel like breaking my own heart by saying "It was great. a lot of fun and I learned so much,"
I will probably just get real cheeky with you and say "no, you first, how was America?"   :) 

_______________________________________________
A couple more random additions to Erin as of November 14th!
I have to register for classes tomorrow night, and I am entirely done with general education and have junior standing in units... and I still. don't. have. a. major. Go me! Hopefully my nose will be up for helping me enroll in some classes for winter quarter...


Also, remember how I ran 26 miles in the SF Marathon that one time? Well I ran a whole mile yesterday... and it was really difficult.


On a positive note! I'm getting really good at French! I can understand people (when they don't speak too fast or complicated) and I'm starting to get the hang of speaking and pronouncing. It makes life go a lot more smoothly around here. Which is FANTASTIC, because it has absolutely no practical value in Davis, California, which is where I will be in just a couple months! Hooray! ;)
_____________________________________________


Hey, so in conclusion, we can illogically draw from all these unrelated rants of mine, that you should have a good day. Be happy. Do that thing that is good for your soul.  


All my Love <3
-Erin

A church on a hill

My mom and I went for a drive near Maria Alm, Austria, and as we turned a corner, we came to this place. I think the photos speak for themselves..

Paris, France 75011

Paris is a city located in Western Europe. It's coordinates are 48° 51' 44'' North 2° 21' 3'' East, and it's located on a river that we've come to call the Seine. Over 2 million live in the city, and over 12 million live in the greater metropolitan area. Earliest human settlement may have been around 4200 BC, and for a time it was the most populated city in the world. There is an imaginary line encompassing about 87 square kilometers of earth, streets, buildings, and people; the area inside this line can be called, for practical purposes, "Paris." Most of the people that reside within this line speak French, though not all...


Paris is not a concept.
It is not a dream.
It is not the set of a movie,

or a poem,
or a place where everyone falls in love.

Not everything in Paris glitters, and certainly not everything that glitters in Paris is gold.

Paris is just a space. It's a space that sometimes smells like fresh flowers shops and bread, and sometimes smells like piss and cigarettes. It can feel romantic and beautiful, or dark and claustrophobic. It's history is complex and tumultuous, and perhaps on a macro-level, its inhabitants have certain characteristics in common. It's a city, unique, but sill just a city.

That's it.

I've been reflecting about this a lot lately. Many of my fellow study abroad students seem to have become disenchanted by the city at this point in their experience. Their initial love-affair has been replaced with frustration and discontent, because Paris and the people in it are not living up to their expectations.

It's just like they went to Disneyland thinking it's the Happiest Place on Earth, but now are tired of the crowds and the noise and the ridiculous prices. They may have even realized it's mostly just an elaborate facade. And to these people I say: if Disneyland is supposed to be the happiest place on earth, then just be happy while you're there! I mean, sheesh! Make it magical!

By saying that, I am only implying that if you expect Paris to be the "City of Love", and not just a pile of concrete and metal and money and people, then you should live as if it is. Live like you're in the most romantic city in the world, and that's exactly what it will be! If you feel must delude yourself into believing Paris is that media-constructed concept that you expected, I think it can be the City of Light, the City of Love, or City of Whatever the heck you want it to be! (although perhaps not the City of Extra Large Ice Filled Drinks—it will probably never be that.).

It is the concept of Paris, not as a physical space but as an idea, that conflicts with reality. If our expectations are romantic and immaterial, but our judgment is realistic, there will always be friction.

Paris is not a lover. It's not an entity in itself (although some, who know the city well, may rightfully argue with me here). To fall in love with it, or to hate it for not living up to expectations, is a little bit, well... silly.

We can only expect what our minds can already comprehend and what we have gathered from previous experiences. Expectations, in that sense, are not something that we should desire if we are adventurous people that seek the unknown. If they must exist at all, expectations should be defied, exceeded, and always shaped by new experience and perspective.

So am I surprised, or upset that in this place called Paris, everyday is not a scene from an Audrey Hepburn movie? That life is not a daydream? That not everyone I meet on the street is a poet or an artist? You mean, this isn't utopia?

That life here is just—life. That like life anywhere, it's just a little bit un-fulfilling and incomplete, but ready to be seized?

I'm not surprised, and I'm definitely not upset. 

In fact, I do love Paris. I love Paris, as it has been for me. 

I speak not of the entire city of Paris, which is too vast, populated, and complex for one person to know and understand.
I speak not of the Paris of movies and songs and poems, nor of the setting for the daydreams of fashionistas or artists or hopeless romantics.
I speak of this place as it is for me, as I experience it now, and as I will remember it later. Paris is what I have learned, and what I have seen. It is how I have grown and how I have found God in a new place—on this particular spot on the globe.

Paris is just a name.

It's an idea that is the prison for a real place that can,
as can any stretch of ground our feet touch,
be as beautiful and poetic as we would like it to be. 

First Morning in St. Johann, Austria

Entries from my travellog #2: 

October 31st

Oh hey, cool, it's Halloween. 

Anyway...

Today, we saw St. Johann in daylight for the first time. We strolled along its narrow, steep roads, peaking in the windows of souvenir and ski shops as we went.

There was no cloud in the sky to hold in the sun's warmth, so the air was raw and crisp and froze my breath in faint wispy clouds. 

The autumn sun stayed low all day, shining horizontally through the valley and over-exposing the landscape. I probably wont ever stop raving about the scenery. The ancient mountains looked jagged and dramatic, but were softened by a quilt made of leaves of burgundy, gold, and piney green, which faded into wide, grassy pastures dotted with cows and a few houses. 

No architect could create a more breathtaking shape to scrape the sky.

We treked down the hill to the river and walked along a path by its side, just talking. 

Another wonderful day! :)